


We Shine Brightly

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Angst, Indentured Service, Magic, Multi, PTSD, Polyamory, Supernatural Elements, Violence, and ostracization, past occurrences of: conscription
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adventures are not meant to be had alone. They’re built around solid friendships and the promise of forging new ones. So, it’s no wonder that Brendon’s gone back home to find the paths he didn’t get to walk with Frank and Gabe when their worlds fell apart seven years ago. Their threads have woven together again and a new journey is about to begin. Brendon’s not sure what to expect, but he’s not alone and that’s more than enough to keep his spirits lifted.</p>
<p>Or, conversely, a winter fairy tale about friendship, love, and never giving up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Shine Brightly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bootson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootson/gifts).



> This was written for 2012's stuffsit fest. finally uploading it here.

In the distance, the city clock begins to chime the hour. Brendon adjusts the satchel strap slung over his left shoulder as he rounds a corner briskly enough that his long coat billows behind him. He almost loses his hat but is able to snatch the flighty thing back before it decides to take a vacation with a strong gust of wind.

Brendon loves his brown and gray hat with its red trimming. It’s important to him, but he doesn’t have time to chase after it; not today.

There’s no time to slow down.

No time to stop for a breather.

He needs to clear the city gate by the twelfth chime. If he doesn’t....

Well, there’s no point in thinking about that. He’s going to make it. If he’s lucky, he’ll clear the gate by the ninth chime.

The city clock chimes for the fifth time, and Brendon slows just long enough to draw a deep breath before sprinting. The gate’s right ahead of him and the day guard’s taking a nap against the stone wall to his right.

It’s noon and the bustle is in the center of the city, not out here. There’s nothing but trees and a heavily-trodden path on the other side of the gate. It’s peaceful here.

Tame.

Boring.

Slipping through the gate happens in the breath between chimes eight and nine. It doesn’t take much for the lock to snick open -a quick flick of the wrist followed by a slight, phantom push- the gate cracking wide enough for Brendon to dart out and toward the treeline. The ironwork is used to his magic by now so the only noise that follows in his wake is his own labored breathing and the slap of worn shoe soles over cobblestones as the gate snicks closed behind him.

Brendon’s as consistent as the clockwork tower sitting in the center of the city.

Every six months he makes this journey into the forest. The first few years, he wasn’t alone. Greta, and later, Spencer would join him part of the way. But Spencer will never understand why this pilgrimage is so important while Greta knows far too well. She just doesn’t _need_ to travel through, anymore.

She’s found a home in the city. With Spencer. They fit together.

Brendon doesn’t begrudge their happiness. He would never do that to Greta. She supported him when few others would.

They wandered into the city almost seven years ago as a pair of bedraggled orphans of fortune and were taken in by the warm embrace of the non-magical people there.

Meeting Spencer followed shortly after that. He was -and still is- a bright flicker of light in the gloom of night.

Brendon is proud to call him a friend. Proud to call him _brother_. Greta isn’t blood, but she will forever be Brendon’s sister in all the ways that matter. Spencer’s binding to her only brings him into their family circle under more permanent circumstances. 

But that does mean Brendon takes this journey alone now. Which is okay because there’s no harm nor is there any foul. It’s not as if he’ll be alone when he makes it to where he’s going.

Outside of the city, the path in front of him is deserted and the air is crisp, biting. Brendon tugs his coat closer where it’s buttoned at his chest, taking a few deep breaths before falling into another sprint. He has, maybe, two minutes left if he wishes to make it to the Realm of Magic safely.

Noon is the universal time for celebrating with others the exuberance of life and all the things learned during the past year. The compass needle forever stuck pointing south. It’s when the door between realms is the easiest to open.

Brendon could, hypothetically, slip through at any time he pleases. His magic _is_ strong enough for that. However, doing so would run a higher risk of getting him noticed in ways he’d rather not be exposed. He _did_ leave the realm, after all. Being dragged back for all eternity is not a wish he ever wants granted.

Sunlight filters through the barren tree limbs and he has to squint to keep the glare from blinding him. To the left of the path is a small gap between bramble bushes. Brendon pushes through the mess of limbs as gently as possible before bolting for the old oak he, Greta, and Spencer sometime picnic under once he’s past the last prickly scrape of bramble.

The oak is ancient. A king standing in the center of his court. Brendon almost trips over a root when he’s close to the massive trunk but rights himself before he topples to the cold, winter-hardened ground.

His hat tries, once again, to travel without him and Brendon caresses the brim with his fingertips, asking for patience. Soon, soon, she can fly free again.

One step.

Two.

Three.

And Brendon carefully presses his free palm against the chilled bark of Father Oak’s trunk. People of this realm can not feel _His_ magic. They can not even begin to fathom _His_ importance.

On good days, Brendon is glad of this. It means his own magic -Greta’s magic- is hidden from view. Brendon left after the denouncement of his name once and would hate to have to pack up again. For all that he loves magic and the realm he was borne into, he has come to see the city as his true home.

The bustle of humanity filled with smiles, happy shouts, and the warmth of acceptance.

In the city, Brendon can create to his heart’s content; little crank-powered train engines, tin soldiers that stiffly march onward at the twist of a brass key, colorfully-painted ballerinas who dance to music when rich, wooden jewelry box lids are lifted. No one frowns at him for his gift of craftsmanship nor do they disapprove of his cheerful singing of the daily praises that should be whispered solemnly when darkness falls and not at dawn for all to hear.

Three years ago, the toymaker he apprenticed under bequeathed the shop -and the tiny cottage not far from the line of downtown shops- to him. Brendon makes toys for the city and, in return, the city accepts him as one of its own. Greta visits the shop with baked goods for the front counter twice a week and Spencer keeps the account ledger with all of its numbers and confusing figures. 

It’s a comfortable life. A good life. Brendon has a family again. He gets to do something he loves. But he’s lonely. Of course, there have been offers of marriage, however, none of those women or men were a _right_ fit.

So single he stays. 

This isn’t why he comes to Father Oak, though. No. He comes here because sometimes, when you leave a place, there are things -people- you lose that hurt too much to give up completely.

Greta was never the only supporting friend Brendon had.

When he was fifteen, and reckless in a way he rarely is anymore -rarely has a chance to be, now- he made friends with a runaway and an orphan. The three of them became the very best of companions.

Many adventures were had. A bond was formed. They made plans to travel the realm together. Just the three of them and whatever skills they could pick up on a whim.

It was a dream that was never to be realized.

When the next spring bloomed into fullness, Brendon’s parents offered him up as a tithe to a noble household with ties to a neighboring kingdom. He was to apprentice under a monk to be a clergyman for the noble family.

His magic was strong and steady, he would make a good cleric. However, all secular ties were to be severed.

It was a life Brendon didn’t want. He thought about running away. In fact, he tried on a still night only to be caught by one of his sisters when he was climbing the stone wall that separated their property from the Salpeter’s. 

After that night, nothing was ever the same. Brendon was put under house arrest until his seventeenth birthday when he would be shipped off to learn a trade he didn’t care for. The only way out was to say _no_. He had the right to decline the offer, however, to do so would garner consequences Brendon was unsure he wanted to carry across his shoulders.

So he kept his silence and lived with his punishment. He was not allowed visitors. Frank and Gabe were chased away by the stable hands if they were found near the property.

Greta would sneak into his room and they’d weave magic together. She’d spin yarns of a world outside of the realm. Of places where magic wasn’t coveted. Lands where the four of them could run to. A new home where they could make themselves anew.

She ferried countless letters between Brendon and his friends until he had the spell right for messages which could be sent without needing a courier. Without Greta, Brendon would have drowned. She was even there to steady him when Frank and Gabe were caught for their countless acts of thievery.

That day, Lady Luck flew through his open window and perched on the corner of his desk, shaking her brown, gray, and red feathers briskly, as if she’d flown for hours without stopping, with the terrible news. Frank was conscripted into the militia while Gabe was indentured to a merchant vessel. In seven years time, both would be free men once more, with skills and pride to employ them.

Their sentences were more humane than what the laws warranted. But seven years wasn’t something Brendon had. If his magic settled when he became a cleric, he’d be trapped with no way out.

A decision had to be made. What was more important: pleasing his parents or doing what _felt_ right. It wasn’t really something Brendon had to mull over when it came down to eventually seeing Frank and Gabe again.

Instead of enjoying the weeks leading up to Christmas, Brendon and Greta worked on crafting even more magical items when Greta could get away from her own hectic home life. Her parents wanted her to marry a Duke she didn’t care for and Brendon felt bad for being the worst friend to ever exist.

On the nights Greta couldn’t sneak over, Brendon would write letters to Frank and Gabe. Replies were sporadic, at best. Brendon constantly worried that the enchanted journals Greta slipped to them before their departure would be stolen or lost.

It was a terrible period of time to live through while the rest of his family were happy and trying to draw him out of his melancholy stupor. They thought Brendon was down because he was thinking about his future in an unkind light. Surely, he knew what good fortunes were being laid at his feet, eager for the taking.

Christmas Day was dreadful. Brendon spent the whole day in a daze, worried that Lady Luck would have trouble finding her destinations. That her shrunken parcels were much too heavy for her frame. Songbirds were not meant to be couriers. 

Greta slipped through his window that night. Neither of them could sleep so they passed the hours whispering about what the future would hold for them when they left for something better. 

Three days later, Brendon went to his parents. He told them he didn’t want to be a clergyman. His mother cried while his father was as calm as a stone set in the center of a raging river.

He had his surname stripped from him, his familiar trinkets taken. All Brendon was left with were the clothes on his back, his magic, and the things he’d made for himself.

Greta met him at the edge of the property. They left together. Two forsaken souls set adrift by their own decisions.

Brendon rests his forehead against Father Oak and closes his eyes. His hat tugs against his fingers. Lady Luck followed him out of the realm and Brendon hates that he has to enchant her. However, he would die from guilt if she got hurt or captured for being a talking Cardinal instead of just a run-of-the-mill song bird. 

Some birds are just not meant to be enslaved. She deserves to fly free. He’s tried sending her off before. Lady Luck, though, has other thoughts and she won’t leave his side. She’s as persistent as Greta. It’s why Brendon enchants her into a hat whenever he’s out and about the city, so she has a chance to see the world they live in when she’s not trapped inside the tiny cottage where they reside.

A cottage that forever surprises him when he remembers that it’s _his_. Brendon never dreamed of a future grand enough that he’d ever live anywhere other than a one-roomed flat over whatever shop he could sell his skills to for room and board.

It’s a cozy place to come home to. It is also why he’s running late today. He was tidying the spare room the best he could. Making it presentable for company. Not that Brendon’s sure he’ll have company when he journeys back home.

It’s just...

It’s been seven years.

Twice a year, he visits Frank and Gabe in the bubble he and Greta constructed before they left. It’s the only time the three of them can be together. Frank and Gabe getting leave to wander off into a forest or abandoned place for a few days without being needed.

Thankfully, that season has finally come to an end.

Brendon tries to steady his breathing. Today is a happy day. He just needs to not be here.

“Father Oak, Protector of Light, Doormaster of all Realms, I ask of you a favor once more. Let me pass from this land to the next. In offering, I give you this day’s praises and the next, gladly.”

Father Oak grants Brendon’s favor and the bark underneath his palm splits away from the rest of the trunk. A square doorway is formed and Brendon climbs down roots that form stairs downward into the dimness.

At the bottom of the stairs, a small window of pale light breaks through the gloom. Brendon crawls through it. When he comes out on the other side, he’s amongst the exposed, tangled roots of a different oak.

The forest on this side is darker, limbs weaving into and out of each other, blocking out much of the weak sunlight. The trees are more prosperous here because they’re less likely to be chopped down for resources. Only what is asked for is taken. There is respect for nature here. It is one of the few things he misses of the old world.

Lady Luck strains against his grip and Brendon throws his hat into the air. In an instant, a Cardinal flaps its wings in the place of where his hat once was. She flies three tight circles over his head before diving down to perch on his shoulder.

“You are nervous.” Lady Luck’s voice is chipper and high. She nudges her red crest against his neck before straightening.

Brendon chuckles as he unbuttons the top two buttons of his coat causing Lady Luck to take to the air once more. He always has trouble pulling out his locket when he wears this particular winter coat. The collar is genuinely restrictive, but it’s the warmest one he owns -a gift from Spencer and Greta a year after their wedding- and this winter has been unseasonably colder than usual.

“I am. What if too much has changed? Perhaps Gabe would wish to continue on as a sailor. They do travel most everywhere. Frank loathes soldiering, but he has skills as a military courier now.”

Brendon stares down at the round locket as it dangles from the silver chain he never takes off.

Lady Luck lands on a low hanging hazel branch, cocking her head to the right before chirping in a resolute manner. “All things change, yes, but you three are beyond that. You live for each other. If you ask them to stay with you, they will say _yes_.”

Brendon doesn’t know what to say. Time has turned him into a steady young man who now knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know how to go about making such a thing happen.

As always.

A first step must be taken if he wants to go anywhere.

There is no way Brendon knows which port Gabe was dropped off at or which outpost Frank was left at when his papers were finalized. Brendon doesn’t wish to spend more months alone without the rest of his makeshift family. His best bet is to do what he’s done for years.

Lady Luck ruffles her feathers and steps off of her branch. She settles onto Brendon’s shoulder again. As soon as she’s still, Brendon lets the weight of his locket settle in the center of his palm.

There are no pictures inside, but he opens it anyway.

Suddenly the chill of winter fades away like a bad dream being shed upon waking. A warm summer sun sets high up in the far corner of the bright, blue sky. There are trees in the distance, but where Brendon stands, there is nothing more than ankle-high grass. Ahead of him is a lake that stretches on for what looks like forever. Tall reeds line in the bank in clumps that rustle in the breeze that occasionally drifts by.

Lady Luck twitters happily before she takes to the air. She heads for the treeline. No doubt she’s in search of some sport.

Brendon lets his satchel slide from his shoulder, onto the grass. It’s safe here. Only those invited in can walk the shores of this bubble. Only those standing in the Realm of Magic can access the door in the first place. Since Greta doesn’t use her locket anymore, Brendon, Frank, and Gabe are the sole occupants of this tiny slice of infinity.

Time doesn’t move through the bubble. They could stay here for decades untouched by age or decay, war or strife.

However, time still exists and staying too long only heralds one’s disappearance. If Frank or Gabe were to stay before their seven years were up, more time would have been added to their sentences. Brendon’s thought about it before, but he’s never been a coward and hiding away in a bubble forever would surely count as such.

Life is for living. Sometimes it hurts. But without pain, no happiness would ever be worth the price.

The summer sun is warm. Even with a breeze rustling through the grass, sweat starts to soak into his shirt collar. He strips himself of his coat, letting the heavy fabric drop with a thump next to his satchel.

Beside the breeze there is no other movement. Worry starts to eat at Brendon’s thoughts. He shouldn’t be alone. Their meeting times have never deviated purposefully. To occupy his thoughts, he lets himself sink down to sit on his coat. It takes several moments to untie his shoelaces. The waxed nylon knotting itself when he’s too hasty with his fingers.

He takes off his thick winter socks and shoves them into his shoes when his feet are finally free. The lake looks inviting, and if he’s stuck waiting for the others then he’ll have to think of better ways to distract himself. Wading through the lake will buy him half an hour.

He stands and rolls up his pant legs. The lake isn’t very deep even if it _is_ extremely wide. When they leave, he’d hate for his slacks to freeze from the winter chill.

Laughter snaps against the breeze as it ruffles through the reeds and Brendon straightens. He knows that laugh and the razor-sharp wit that usually follows in its wake. Of course, today would be a game day. 

Pushing up the sleeves of his red button down, he makes a mad dash for the clump of reeds closest to him. Before he gets a chance to start poking through the reeds an inked hand reaches out and drags him forward. The force of the tug is unbalancing, and Brendon stumbles, sending both he and Frank tumbling into the lake.

The lake water is cool, but not shocking. Brendon laughs happily when Frank grumbles about being soaked.

“You couldn’t just sit and wait, you had to hide?” Brendon tries to keep his voice happy but his earlier worry creeps into his words.

“We were bored. Got here early. Decided against a swim.” Frank doesn’t sound pleased about being dragged into the lake, but what did he expect when he surprised Brendon?

He and Gabe both know how Brendon is when he isn’t focused.

“What did you expect, short stack, I told you not to grab him.” Gabe’s standing at the shoreline chuckling at Frank while Frank glares at him.

Brendon smiles up at Gabe and lifts his hand out of the water. When Gabe goes to pull him out of the lake, Brendon tugs him in.

Gabe isn’t nearly as irritated at being sopping wet as Frank is.

The three of them spend what seems like hours just tackling each other in the water and the muck. The sun never changes position. There’s no way of knowing for sure how many hours have passed.

Usually Brendon would wind his pocket watch for two days and when the time wound down, they’d part ways. However, today is different, so he shelves the thought for later.

Their laughter weaves together over their heads and it’s the lightest he’s felt in years. The worry is still there, gnawing on his ribs, now. But it’s easy to push the discomfort away.

Eventually, exhaustion finds them dragging their heavy limbs out of the water. Brendon flops down next to his coat and stares up at the sky. Frank almost sits on the lump, but notices in time to push the pile of thick fabric away with his foot.

Gabe drops to Brendon’s left. The silence is comfortable. Everything feels _right_ in this moment.

Brendon watches a solitary cloud float across the sky. He knows how it feels, even if the poor, lonely cloud isn’t exactly real. They haven’t talked about the future. Brendon isn’t even sure if his friends are actually free of their chains yet.

“Are you...Did everything...Do I...Do I need to wind my pocket watch?” Brendon hates that his voice comes out weak and flighty. He can’t even put into words half of what he wants to ask.

Frank’s hand bumps into his side and Brendon turns to squint up at him when he shakes his head.

_No_.

Gabe leans backwards and lets his head rest against Brendon’s damp shoulder. “You don’t need to, Bren, not ever again.”

Brendon releases the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. A genuine smile starts to slowly crawl its way across his lips.

Frank’s fingers nudge at his own before twining them together. The emotions swirling in Brendon’s chest are a combination of all the things he felt when he was younger mixed in with the much newer ones of love and contentment that are warm and comforting at this frozen moment in time.

It wasn’t until last year that he realized he felt for Gabe and Frank the same way Greta does for Spencer. It took Spencer asking why Brendon never seemed to entertain marriage prospects anymore last Christmas for Brendon to really stop and come to the right conclusions.

How could he fall for someone new when his heart was already someone else’s? Two someone elses, to be exact. 

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t...that it’s been so long.” Brendon knows he shouldn’t be saying this. What happened in the past is the past and was a spiral of events that snowballed out of everyone’s control.

Frank’s fingers tighten their hold on Brendon’s while Gabe sits up and Brendon begrudgingly follows him upward.

“You shouldn’t apologize for things that you have no power over.” Frank’s words aren’t as biting as they could be.

He isn’t big on showing weakness. Military life does that to a person. It pars them down out of necessity.

Brendon likes to pretend that the bubble has done its best to protect Frank from the majority of this disillusionment. It’s startling to blink and fully notice just how much Frank has changed over the years. Ink covers much more of his skin than it once did and his touch is cooler than it once was.

He’s also lost weight, again.

But maybe that’s just how things should be. Everyone ages. Even Gabe’s older than he once was. His skin is darker than Brendon’s ever seen it and his hair is lighter in places from the sun and the stress.

What Brendon wouldn’t do to erase the past seven years from their lives. Give them the chance to start over. 

It takes a moment to clear away the lump that’s flown into his throat to roost. When he does, Brendon trains his gaze on the lake instead of focusing on either Frank or Gabe. If he does that he isn’t sure what he might actually say or do.

“I know it isn’t much, but my spare room is yours, both of yours, if you want it. If not...that’s...it’s fine, but it’s there and I’ve missed you both.” Brendon doesn’t mean for his words to crack and split open at the end, but they do, regardless of his intentions.

He won’t utter the word love, not yet. It’s much too soon, and while he’s almost certain Gabe and Frank feel the same way if their expressions are to be read truefully, the time doesn’t feel right.

Frank lifts their conjoined hands and sets them on his knee. “Your neighbors will be outraged that you have such rude company staying with you, of course we want the room, but-” Frank breaks off and throws a look at Gabe that Brendon can’t decipher.

Gabe takes the cue and hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder. “What if we have one last adventure, first? Before going home.” Gabe’s voice is playful.

Brendon smiles without meaning to. His heart skips a few beats at Gabe’s mention of _home_ as if he’s already accepted Brendon’s place as his own, their own.

For years, there have been nights where Brendon would dream of the sea breaking Gabe’s boisterous spirit only to wake up in a cold sweat not knowing what was truth and what was fiction, melancholia clinging to his skin, aching for something he couldn’t have.

It’s heartening knowing that maybe the bubble has also sheltered Gabe from the brunt of the sea’s brutality.

“Like when we were younger?” Brendon glances from Gabe to Frank while he speaks. When they both nod, Brendon echoes them and can’t keep in the happy, little giggle that escapes from his lips.

“Yes, please. I’ll have to write Greta a letter first, ask if she and Spencer will watch the shop for me.” Brendon yawns around his words.

He goes for his satchel and Frank stills him with a hand against his shoulder.

“We should rest first. When we wake, you can write to Greta. If you want, you could invite her. Spencer could watch your shop.”

Brendon hates that exhaustion creeps up on him like this. He can’t help that his magic stretches thin if he does anything strenuous while he’s in their little bubble world. Roughhousing in the lake for hours upon hours most certainly was something he shouldn’t have done, but it was fun.

Brendon doesn’t regret anything that’s happened today.

He grabs his winter coat and uses it as a pillow, curling up on his side and closing his eyes. Gabe settles behind him, Frank at his front. They’ve slept like this before. The three of them clinging to each other as if that alone could keep the outside world at bay for just a little longer.

That never worked in the past, but it’s a new day. A new beginning. Maybe things are finally changing for the better. 

When he wakes, it’s to Lady Luck perched on the edge of his shoe, whistling the morning praises while Gabe hums a sea shanty under his breath. Brendon sits up and stretches his arms to the sky. Working out the kinks that settled into his muscles as he slept.

Gabe smiles at him before starting into another song, this one about too much rum and willing port town women. Brendon joins in when Gabe gets to the chorus. It’s a song Gabe taught him and Frank almost five years ago, when they met during the height of summer’s sweltering reign. 

There’s a scoff to his right. Brendon tilts his head and sings louder when he meets Frank’s eyes. Frank shakes his head while he rifles through his canvas pack.

Like that, it’s easy for Brendon to notice just how populated their sleeping spot has become. Frank’s walking staff and long military coat are laying next to Brendon’s satchel. Gabe’s own coat and duffel are near Brendon’s left knee with a pair of long khakis draped across the center of the duffel. The hems are frayed and Gabe’s spent the hours before Brendon woke mending a tear in the thick fabric it seems.

“You know you adore this song, Frankie. It’s a tale of historic importance. What will the poor ladies of Tye think of your scoffing at their heritage?” Gabe smirks at Frank before picking up a small spool of thick, beige thread, throwing the spool into the air only to catch it on its downward plunge, over and over again.

Brendon giggles. “Think of them and their mothers, Frank. What would the old wives say if they could hear you defiling the honor of their daughters.”

Frank huffs out a disgruntled laugh. “I’m sure the women of Tye enjoy knowing their heritage is such. Old wives, Bren? Really? I’d imagine they’d harumph in disdain and throw rotten radishes at you for even insinuating their daughters as being less than pure, virtuous maidens.”

Brendon leans to his right and snags his satchel strap, dragging the leather bag closer. He hums a cadence Frank taught them a few years ago. It’s just as vulgar as the shanty Gabe was singing.

Gabe catches his spool of thread one last time before letting the wooden thing drop into a side pocket of his duffel. After the thread has vanished, he rolls up the pair of khakis and shoves them into another duffel compartment. “Gossipy, vile sea hags.”

Brendon and Frank nod their agreement in tandem.

“Vain, meddling window watchers.”

Brendon refrains from adding to the list of negatives. He could, but his mood isn’t stormy enough to warrant a reply. Instead, he fishes out a jar of apple jam he’s been saving for this special occasion. A tin of biscuits follow the jar. The jam is much too sweet to be eaten alone.

They don’t need food or water in their little bubble world. However, Brendon always brings something anyway. As an offering of comfort. Frank isn’t much for jams or marmalades, he much prefers cakes or pastries, but he enjoys a thin layer of the sticky substances slathered across a fresh, flakey biscuit.

Gabe would steal the whole jar away if given the chance. 

It’s surprising that neither has raided Brendon’s satchel for the jar and the tin yet. There’s been many a time where he’s awoken to Gabe prodding him with his foot because his hands were occupied by a spoon and the jar. If it’s not Gabe, it’s Frank shaking his shoulder with one hand while the other holds a half-eaten biscuit.

Manners are not their forte.

It’s not something Brendon worries himself over. He would have followed his parents wishes if he wanted friends with proper manners and posh aloofness. 

As the jam makes its rounds and the biscuits are divided amongst themselves, Brendon snags the two parcels of string-tied butcher’s paper that have been sitting at the bottom of his satchel since he packed them, days ago. Gabe doesn’t celebrate Christmas as Frank and Brendon do, but he humors Brendon’s need to bring a present each December that they meet.

 

While they eat, Brendon nibbles on his first biscuit and draws out his letter kit. Frank and Gabe bicker about cloud formations on either side of him. It’s like nothing has ever changed. It’s still the three of them on the eve of another journey.

The thrill is electric.

Brendon can’t wait to explore again, this time, farther away from his birth town. Soon. Soon, there will be a new adventure. But first, he needs to send word to Greta.

The journal is slim and weighs little when settled on his knee. The inkwell is heavier. To keep the ebony ink from spilling out and staining his brown slacks, Brendon sets the metal well in the grass before opening the thin box that holds his pen.

Every item is enchanted. Magic to keep them safe and secret. Magic to protect them from breakage or wear. Magic to bring them back to him if they are lost.

Brendon dips the pen tip into the ink after flipping to a clean page of parchment. He sets to penning his letter to Greta one-handed. If he doesn’t, at least, start to nibble on his own jam-covered biscuits, they will vanish off his knee.

It’s not something Brendon worries himself about. He doesn’t consider it rude if Gabe or Frank steal his portions. He has more at home. Greta keeps him stocked up on seasonal jams. It’s a wonder he hasn’t gone soft in the middle from an over-indulgence of sweets.

However, the apple jam is extra-specially delicious today, and Brendon doesn’t want to jinx this fresh start. Seven years spent away from the guys has made him superstitious in ways. He doesn’t want to condemn their lives to sorrow once more by not eating anything at all.

He already bears the weight of fault that first time. If he’d ran away without being caught, the three of them would have left together. Frank and Gabe wouldn’t have had to continue stealing to survive.

Guilt isn’t why Brendon’s here. It doesn’t tether him to anything. It’s just there, sitting in his chest with all the other emotions his soul harbors. He wishes he could pluck it out and let it drown in the lake. However, potions and poultices have never been his strong suit. He’s a creature of non-personal magic, unlike Gabe who, in another life, would have made a perfect herbalist.

Asking Gabe to help release the guilt would only bring the emotion to the surface and Brendon doesn’t want to ruin the companionable mood with his darkness.

“The sea’s surface is populated by boats full of liars and cheats. You’ve learned their nasty habits, Gabe. I don’t believe a clan of mermaids abducted you to make you their king. Giants, that, I _could_ believe, but mermaids, never.”

Frank leans backwards and reaches behind Brendon to poke Gabe in the shoulder. Brendon doesn’t have to see the action to know it for what it is; Frank trying his hardest to ruffle Gabe’s non-existent feathers. 

“The art of subterfuge escapes your blunt understanding of the world, short stack. Happened three years back, I’ll have you know, one night, after a storm wiped a third of the crew from the ship’s deck.” Gabe’s voice loses its boister about halfway through. The remainder of his words sink like heavy stones being dropped into the depths of an ocean.

Brendon looks up sharply, pulling his half-eaten biscuit away from his lips with a jerk that showers his journal in biscuit crumbs. He doesn’t pay the sticky crumbs much attention. Gabe doesn’t lie when he’s somber.

There’s truth buried in this story that Brendon has never heard. Gabe enjoys expounding on his exploits. If he hasn’t mentioned this particular yarn, as of yet, and it’s been three years, well, that’s a tell if he’s ever heard one.

Frank seems to catch the truth the same moment Brendon does because he doesn’t bait Gabe more. Brendon’s suddenly tangled up in imagining how bad that night must have been. It makes him shiver as icy fingers clutch at his heart.

The thought of losing Gabe is frightening. As frightening as the nightmares Brendon sometimes has of Frank being caught in the middle of a battle when he’s already been wounded. Weak and helpless.

Brendon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second. When he reopens them, he watches Lady Luck launch herself upward, toward a parade of fluffy clouds high above their heads.

Once he thinks he has his words under his own control again, he opens his mouth. “Were they pretty? Mischievous? Mother always hated those storybook tales of the merfolk’s beauty. She thought they were vain, petty predators. I was always curious.” 

Gabe smiles again and Brendon finds himself smiling at Gabe in return.

“When the moonlight broke through the clouds, it made their scales shimmer. I’ve never seen anything like it. They were right devils with their charm. They were giddy and playful.” Gabe twists his sad smile into an outright leery smirk at the end of his sentence, thoroughly burying the dark, awed tone he began with.

Brendon laughs without meaning to.

Frank snorts but he’s also smiling. “So you had to be just as charming, of course. Now I see why they’d want you as their king. Smarmy mythical creatures, the lot of them. Still, I think, you’re better suited for the giants of the north.” 

Brendon goes back to penning his letter. Gabe’s ventured away from the dark place he was tumbling into and things are as they should be once more.

“The gnomes must be proud their princess represents their people with such sincerity.” Gabe’s quip is lost amongst the grass when Frank reaches behind Brendon and topples the both of them to the ground.

The action jostles Brendon and a giant splotch of ink streaks across the bottom of his letter, a garish flourish that follows after his signature. He sighs and closes his journal. His magic will only deliver the message when the cover is shut.

Once his journal is closed, he places it next to his inkwell and sets to putting away his supplies. His second biscuit stares up at him from where he set it on the cover of his journal. He _could_ eat it, but he’s already jittery as it is. He always is on the eve of a new journey.

More sugar won’t do him any good.

It’s best to just tear the biscuit in half and offer the halves to a breathless Frank and Gabe when his shadow blocks out the sun shining on them as they tussle. It’s an effective way to end the good-natured bickering and attempts of one-upmanship.

Neither are good at wasting things.

Brendon’s maybe exploiting something he shouldn’t, however, this isn’t the first time. He doesn’t feel guilty or low for using this weakness against them. He’s the youngest of seven, some things will always be shamelessly exploited because they’re dirty tactics.

It’s a habit he’s bound to never shake.

Gabe’s the first to untangle his limbs from Frank’s. The apple jam really is _that_ good.

Brendon laughs and Gabe ruffles his sleep-mussed hair with his free hand. “You’re a little imp today. Bribery will get you everywhere.”

Frank huffs a laugh against Brendon’s shoulder while he tries to stealthily snatch his half of the biscuit from Brendon’s hand. “He’s too tall to be an imp.”

The words are warm against Brendon’s neck before they vanish when Frank pulls away, victoriously biting into his successfully nabbed half of biscuit.

Brendon smiles. “I can’t help I’m taller than you.”

Frank shoves at him good-naturedly and goes back to polishing off the last of the biscuit.

Gabe’s lacing up his winter boots when Brendon remembers the parcels sitting in the grass. He goes to pass them out and Frank refuses to take his while Gabe hands his back not even a second after the butcher’s paper touches his fingertips.

Brendon opens his mouth to dispute the refusal only to have Frank talk over him. “It’s not Christmas yet. We have three weeks. I think we can wait until we’re home.”

Gabe nods after he stands and starts to dust blades of grass off his khakis. “We can have a proper holiday or something. Frank wouldn’t shut up about it earlier.”

Frank rolls his shoulders into a sharp shrug. “I seem to remember I wasn’t the person who brought the idea up in the first place.”

Brendon sits down next to his coat and tugs his shoes on. The laces are much more agreeable with him today. He idly listens to Frank and Gabe bicker in the background.

He’s repacking Frank and Gabe’s gifts when his fingers start to tingle slightly. It’s nothing startling. He’s used to it by now.

Greta’s replied to his message.

When they were enchanting the journals, Brendon was firmly against chimes or the sound of bells when a letter was received. He wanted a silent retrieval system that wouldn’t obstruct daily activities or work. 

Lady Luck drifts downward from the sky to land on his elbow before climbing up to sit on his shoulder. She whistles at him in questioning as he’s opening his journal. “Are we leaving soon?”

Brendon nods while he reads. Greta’s reply is short but encouraging. She declines his offer to come adventuring with them, but promises she’ll watch the shop for him while he’s away. She teases that the shelves will be empty when he returns and Brendon runs fingers through his hair at the thought of having to restock with new creations and old favorites.

He loves his work, but sometimes the effort is exhausting.

Right now, there are plenty of babbles and oddities for the children to love. Greta’s ran the shop before, with and without Spencer’s help, she should be fine. Brendon smiles to himself before shutting the journal and placing it back into his satchel.

Frank and Gabe have jumped from bickering to discussing the finer qualities of distilled spirits. Neither seem to enjoy rum, though, Gabe has vast experience with the stuff. Both prefer whiskey or vodka to the liquor that comes from sugar cane.

Brendon has no preferences. A spirit is a spirit. It’s why all varieties of alcohol are called as such because when a plant dies -ferments- the spirit is released. It’s the same for all plants.

One of his older brothers taught him that when he was ten. Brendon’s parents were not pleased. They believed in the purity of the body. Alcohol only poisons the holy temple a person’s soul resides in, after all.

Lady Luck spreads her wings and flutters down to his satchel when he stands and begins the slow process of tugging on his winter coat. By the time he’s finished, Frank and Gabe are also standing in their cold weather garb.

Frank’s coat is dark and severe in its cut; all functionality, no personality. Gabe’s is lighter in color and made from water resistant materials, more of a slicker than a heavy winter coat civilians would wear. They both look their respective parts; the military man and the merchant sailor.

Brendon knows he sticks out like a sore thumb. His clothing screams _comfort_ and _sheltered_ at the top of its lungs. He hasn’t been through the same circumstances and it’s noticeable.

In the past, they meshed in unusual, yet, complementary ways. Now, however, he isn’t sure if that’s still the case. What if too much distance has flowed between them?

A sharp peck against his cheek pulls him out of his gloomy thoughts. Lady Luck’s crest brushes his neck and Brendon buttons up his coat, minus the top two buttons. He’s being ridiculous. If he were unfit to be around, neither Frank nor Gabe would be standing here. Their lockets function just as well as Brendon’s does.

They could have left while he slept or after the biscuits were consumed. The fact that they stayed should be proof enough. It’s something Brendon’s going to have to work on. This nagging thought that he doesn’t fit anymore is untrue, he’s just having trouble shaking the monster from his back.

Thankfully, he has the time to exorcise that particular thought.

Gabe nudges him before placing a calloused hand on his shoulder. “Time to go. Adventure awaits.” 

Frank scoops up his satchel, handing the strap to Brendon as he takes his spot to Brendon’s right.

“We haven’t all the time in the world, after all. Got presents to unwrap soon.” Frank’s voice plays at blandness but fails to hide the amusement skimming the surface.

Brendon reaches down and wraps warm fingers around Frank’s wrist.

“Not my fault.”

He uses his right hand to grasp his locket. Lady Luck settles her head firmly against his neck as Brendon opens the locket.

“You had your chance to open yours early.”

His words start out bathed in heat only to finish chilled when the world around them reknits itself into the barren wasteland of winter. The sweat beading at his hairline automatically begins to freeze. It’s uncomfortable, but not a new sensation.

“Where to now?”

Brendon knows only a portion of the forest surrounding them. He traveled through only once. He and Greta spent a late February night under the hazel trees at the path’s edge before stumbling to the oak to ask for safe passage elsewhere.

By the end of their journey, he was feverish and Greta had to steady him when he walked. The experience was far from fun. But not long after, they found the city. So there was no longer a reason to continue traveling.

Frank and Gabe shrug in unison.

“I hear water. Following its path, we’re bound to find a town, sooner or later.” Frank stalks off of the vague path toward the rushing of a river that has the grace or maybe the stubbornness to not freeze over during the frigid temperatures.

Brendon doesn’t hear the water, but Gabe seems to because he’s right after Frank hunting for the mysterious river that’s hidden by the congested mass of trees growing in a tangled mess past the path. It shouldn’t be surprising, Gabe’s attuned to bodies of water and Frank was trained to listen for context clues.

Unlike Brendon, who was taught softer subjects, even before he left for a better life. 

It doesn’t make him useless, just reinforces their trio as well-rounded. They each have their own strengths and weaknesses. When together, they’re complete in ways that they aren’t when separated.

Which is a heavy thought to mull over while he’s struggling to catch up with the guys. Gabe has ridiculously long legs coupled with an eerily keen ability to climb rigging without tangling up in the ropes and Frank’s short with a fast stride akin to that of a stalking predator. Brendon’s just an average person, magic flowing through his veins or not. He hasn’t the natural grace nor the training, even if he’s scarily good at sprinting after years of growing up in a household of many brothers and sisters.

Not that that skill has much use here, where the trees and bushes have grown into a knot of thrumming life past the line of hazels that herald the oak set just off the path, to the left. It reminds Brendon of the stand of trees not far from his parents’ property. Only there was room to move freely without being caught tangled-up in a mass of limbs and vines if one decided to explore without the aid of a trappers’ trail.

Lady Luck flies through a round hole left open where two tree limbs loop around each other but fail to completely fuse together and he follows below her, mostly by slipping between gnarled and twisted roots that have grown upward instead of down into the hard ground. The path forward is congested and slow going. Frank’s taunting Gabe about his height when Brendon finally makes it through the tangle of trees and hibernating underbrush.

“Pines were not meant to stride through a hardwood forest it seems.” Frank’s voice is peppered with amusement at Gabe having to stretch after being confined to slouching or clinging to tree trunks just to make it through.

“While tiny, long-haired hares, like you, were born to dart through the gaps? You’re right, height means nothing.”

Brendon has to strain to hear their bickering for the sound of rushing water is almost deafening. It seems that if one were to dash through the forest too quickly, they’d stumble and find themselves swept down the river that cuts its path parallel to the treeline. There’s barely enough bank to stand on safely without falling in.

He’s mildly surprised that Frank didn’t accidentally drag both he and Gabe into the frigid drink. Leading the way or not, he has a tendency of falling into lakes or rivers when they’re together. Brendon’s lucky he had to slowly pick his way through the mess behind him because if not, he would have toppled the three of them into the river himself.

Graceful, he is not.

There’s ice clinging to frozen, dead grass at the edges of the river bank. The river mist hanging over the water stings as badly as a nest full of angry hornets when a breeze kicks the frozen moisture in their direction. Brendon shoves his hands into his coat pockets and pulls out his favorite pair of gloves. They’re black leather and lined with the pelt of some game animal Frank caught and skinned after he was transferred from the local militia to that of the kingdom’s main military patrol. 

They were the first gift Brendon ever received from Frank while they were in the bubble. The unwrapped bundle came with a story as blunt and as unfrilled as Frank usually was when he felt uneager to embellish the way Gabe usually did.

An acquaintance of Frank’s bet against his trapping skills one fall night when their unit was resting after a long day of patrolling. The next morning, Frank signed on to trap game for the unit’s daily meat requirement.

By the end of the reaping season, Frank had an impressive tally of snared kills. He had won the bet and the acquaintance lined his newest pair of gloves with the spare bits of pelt and gave them to Frank as a reward.

Instead of keeping the gloves, Frank gave them to Brendon, seeing as the excessive trapping had turned him against the unnecessary slaughter of animals. Though it didn’t curb his compulsion to take on arbitrary bets just for the sake of winning. There’s nothing that can break him of the habit. His need to prove others wrong runs much too deep for that.

Gabe pops the collar of his winter slicker with one hand and adjusts his grip on his duffel with the other. “The clouds are thinking about showering us with pellets of ice. We have a day’s worth of light left. Unless someone wants to pitch an imaginary tent here, we might want to move.”

Frank shrugs before marching off southward at a steady pace. His knit cap is pulled down low, almost covering his eyes even though there’s a few strands of dark hair trying to escape by crawling down to the edges of the wool.

The cap is a twin of the one Gabe’s wearing.

Brendon has the triplet shoved in another coat pocket. He transferred the cap to his coat almost a week ago, the same as the gloves, when he realised the wind and chill weren’t going to let up; it was only going to get worse. He never starts out wearing the woolen monstrosity because he already has a hat for the city, even if she’s really not a hat at all.

He crows victoriously when he finally fishes the thick, woolen thing out of an inside breast pocket. Gabe laughs at him, placing a steadying hand between his shoulders when he sways a little too forcefully from trying to tug the cap down over his freezing ears.

He turns his head and grins up at Gabe. “I still don’t believe that this thing was knitted from enchanted yarn. Entertaining story or not.”

Up in front of them, Frank scoffs. His voice has to fight against the noisy river for proper attention. Thankfully, by now, Brendon’s used to the sound, so it’s easier to ignore in favor of his jibbing.

“That’s because they weren’t. Knowing Gabe, he found the blasted things in a rubbish bin and thought them too amusing to be left to rot.”

It’s plain by the bite of his words, Frank’s being deliberate. His sarcasm loves to come out and play when Gabe’s in a happy enough mood to indulge his cutting sense of humor.

Brendon’s never met a more unusually complimentary pair of fellows. Upon first look, one wouldn’t think Frank and Gabe to be friends let alone two of the closest people to have ever decided to run schemes and rackets together. To say it was surprising when Brendon found himself easily included in that friendship is a gross understatement. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone threw out an object of worth without knowing their mistake. That’s how I found the lockets. Not that they were in a rubbish bin, more like scattered about a back alley behind the clocksmith’s workshop.”

Gabe pats him on the back and hums something happy and jig-like under his breath. A second or two after, Frank joins in. It takes Brendon far too long to recognise the song as one of the pub ditties he learned his first few years living in the city.

There’s this small dive of a joint called The Fiddler’s Stage that Spencer used to frequent before he and Greta married. There were plenty a night where Brendon would find himself dragged away from his apprenticeship and the work table piled high with broken and unfinished toys so he and Spencer could unwind there.

Those first few years were when Brendon realized he could have more friends than just Frank and Gabe. Not that the notion ever stopped him from writing letter after letter across the parchment pages of his journal or slipping out of the city to visit with them when the time was right.

How it took him forever to realise he was in love with them will _always_ amaze him. Greta still laughs at him for coming to that thought as late as he did. Because, of course, Brendon holed up in her and Spencer’s spare room the rest of the Christmas party that night just mulling over everything before she knocked on the door and let herself in.

But that’s jumping too far ahead. Or is it skipping too far into the past? Brendon doesn’t know. He shrugs his shoulders without meaning to and Gabe arches an eyebrow when he doesn’t mention what he’s thinking about.

Lady Luck flies ahead of Frank before banking back and dropping to perch on his shoulder. She whistles along with the harmony and Brendon feels a grin tug at his chilled lips. She’s a songbird at heart, and the only time he ever left her at the shop or his upstairs room while he and Spencer went out, she was angry enough at him to stay silent for a week.

Ever since then, Brendon’s made sure he has his hat for every occasion of merriment. He learned his lesson. Lady Luck goes with him almost everywhere, these days. Spencer might not get out as much anymore and The Fiddler’s Stage might have been exchanged for The Pale Pony with the lads down the lane, who are apprenticing at the master carpenter’s shop, but the singing of vulgar or drunken ditties has yet to change. 

It’s fun getting to be loose and lax enough to belt out rubbish about barmaids and busty millers’ daughters without blushing the first time around.

It seriously used to amuse Spencer to no end that Brendon didn’t know a single slum song. He took it as a personal challenge to acquaint Brendon with as many dirty jigs, stories, and songs as possible.

Those were fun nights.

Brendon hadn’t the heart to tell Spencer that it was less a naivety towards vulgarity as it was an unfamiliarity with the realm he resided in. It took three years before Spencer realised the truth. After that, he prodded until Brendon taught him a few of the lesser involved tunes he had learned back home. Though, those never included the shanties, hymns, and cadences Gabe and Frank taught him.

It felt much too sacrilegious to tell the tales woven into those tunes.

“Some people don’t know what they’re missing.” Is all Gabe says before he launches into a full-out historical ballad that has Frank groaning and twisting around to walk backwards while pointing at Gabe and declaring him dead to them.

He joins in, regardless.

It’s hard not to when it’s the _Ballad of Cornish Hall_ , which starts out pleasantly enough and ends woefully tragic and sad. It’s never been one of Brendon’s favorites, but then stories of war and the fractured lives of lovers who came out of the mess broken and alone never are for they cut dangerously close to the thoughts he’s never enjoyed entertaining.

Yeah, not exactly a happy tale that one is, though, it starts off joyous enough.

Brendon waits until the chorus breaks down into the happy hurrahs of the service men celebrating their first victory before he grabs hold of the narrative and switches it with a less tragic tale. The cold air carries his voice higher above their heads now that the river’s slowed to a more sedate pace, with ice forming across more of the bank muffling the racket some as well.

Frank nods in front of them and picks up his pace. He won’t actively sing _Mallory Mains_. However, Brendon imagines he’s smiling as much as he ever does when he’s stumbled into remembering his forced enlistment. Gabe huffs sadly at Brendon’s side, but then he’s always been oddly fixated on _Cornish Hall_ for a person who bemoans the existence of the military at every chance he can get.

It’s possible that all the complaining and contempt came more from Frank’s plight than any other self-appointed opinions on the matter. Much in the same way that Brendon dislikes both the merchant traders _and_ the military for taking his two favorite people away from him.

The rest of the evening finds them breaking from the river, perhaps, a few hours before dusk, to follow a very worn path as it hugs the treeline. Brendon’s pocket watch hasn’t been wound yet. He forgot to wind it when they left the bubble, so he’s unsure of the exact time. Maybe Gabe was right to invest in a wrist sundial, considering the thing needs no wound cogs or springs to run.

Brendon’s still partial to his pocket watch. It’s one of the few trinkets he was able to smuggle out of his house all those years ago. His parents forgot that it wasn’t something he tinkered into ticking away the wound hours. There was _no_ way he wasn’t going to use that to his advantage.

There’s that concept of not being the most honest person ever, again. It’s not really a problem. Not one Brendon imagines he’ll be called on anyway. The guys prefer him just the way he is, which is to say mildly naive with a dash of inventiveness, a sprinkling of wicked humor, and a hell of a lot of fake wide-eyed wonder when he’s feeling extra impish.

As dusk finally approaches, Frank slows to a more sedate pace while Brendon and Gabe bookend him when he drops the few steps behind to fall in line with them. The path under their feet expands and breaks from the treeline in a mad dash for the town that’s now in the distance straight ahead.

A crooked post juts upward from the ground in an attempt to touch the sky. A handful of weathered hand-painted signs point in several directions. At the post, part of the path separates into several smaller trails that snake away from the town.

One particularly curvy trail plays tag with the treeline before plunging right into the thick of the darkness. Brendon finds his eyes continually wandering in that direction. There’s something tugging at his magic. It’s this small creeping feeling of fingers snagging in imaginary netting before twisting the ropes with subtle snaps to the rigging.

He can’t remember _ever_ feeling this way. A sharp whistle right near his ear causes him to startle and almost trip over his own feet when Lady Luck chirps. “You’re worrying them. Just don’t look and you’ll be fine. It’ll pass.”

Brendon wants to ask _what will pass_ but he doesn’t get a chance to because frozen rain begins to fall. It seems the heavy clouds have finally decided to make good on their earlier threat. 

Gabe tugs on his slicker while cursing the clouds for being cruel.

“Finicky old blowhards, can’t ever freaking wait.”

He twists gloved fingers into Brendon’s coat sleeve when Brendon starts off in the wrong direction. Away from the town, in hopes of following the trail into the forest.

“Wrong way, Bren. There’s bound to be a nice inn in town where we can stay instead of the frigid forest.” Gabe’s voice sounds almost far away.

Brendon isn’t sure why. He’s distracted by the vague sound of voices that seem to be playing tag amongst the drops of sleet and has trouble focusing.

Frank snags his free hand and, together, he and Gabe drag Brendon through the town’s open gate. Lit street lamps flicker in the wind, casting shadows against the glass walls of their prisons. Brendon leans heavily against Gabe’s side and stares at the yellow flames.

Darkness is rapidly approaching them, along with the storm. The air feels thick and charged. Brendon closes his eyes and tries to calm his racing heart.

He’s safe here, standing in the middle of a cobblestone road with buildings rising up around them. There are wards up. _Lots_ of wards. He can feel them. Just as well as he suspects Gabe and Frank can.

It still does nothing to explain _why_ the forest was suddenly enticing when hours before it was _not_.

People walk by. Some whisper things he can’t understand. Frank’s hand tightens around his wrist. Gabe tugs off his knit cap and replaces the wool with the felt of a warm hat. Brendon stiffens and with his free hand, plucks the hat from atop his head.

It’s Lady Luck. She’s transformed herself back into his hat. He runs soothing fingers across her brim. She rarely changes forms without his assistance. It’s alarming to light onto _why_ she would resort to twisting into this form again without his knowledge.

“What happened? I...I don’t understand. The forest, is it enchanted?” Brendon knows his voice crawls out as a confused whisper. However, he’s unsure as to how to change his tone seeing as he _is_ confused.

Frank shakes his head.

“ _No_ , it’s not. Come on, it’s freezing out here. We’ll talk about it once inside, okay?”

Brendon finds himself nodding. His eyes trip first from Frank to Gabe before cycling back to Frank again while he and Gabe share worried glances with each other when they think Brendon’s not looking. It’s glaringly obvious there’s something he’s missing. Something extremely important.

It’s unnerving.

He lets himself be herded to the nearest inn. The sign swinging in the wind is rusty at the hinges. A screechy scrape of iron follows every downswing. Frank pushes the door open and Gabe closes it after they file in.

The innkeeper doesn’t ask for identification, only inquires on the state of their affairs while Gabe hands him three gold coins for their stay.

“Room’s up the stairs and to the left. There’s stew left hanging over the hearth. Help yourselves.” Is all the short, stocky man says before he pockets the gold coins and turns to shout at a young man shelving ledgers behind him.

He doesn’t seem to care about three men sharing a single room, but then, with travelers it mustn’t be uncommon. Brendon shrugs and finds himself looking out the frosted front window in the direction of the hidden treeline.

There’s no magic tugging at his spirit now. That doesn’t mean he’s forgotten or lost interest. It feels as if there’s this round pebble lodged in his chest that is nothing more than a knot of want.

Brendon longs to pick at that knot until it unravels.

The sound of thunder is unexpected, though, not uncommon for a winter storm. He jumps at the sound, regardless. Frank and Gabe steer him up the stairs, away from the front door. They seem wary and on guard.

“Just tell me” is out of his mouth before Gabe’s even shut their room door fully.

Frank sighs and rips his knit cap off his head. He tosses the woolen thing at the bed before walking to a rickety chair and dropping down to sit after letting his pack settle at his feet with his walking staff leaning against a nearby wall.

“What have you ever heard of _The Hunt_?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Not much. Aren’t there songs about something like that? It’s an ancient rite, I think.”

“Something like that. Only not. It’s dangerous and to be caught up in the madness is unwise.” Frank stares at his hands. He won’t look at Brendon.

Gabe sets his duffel at the foot of the bed. Once his coat is hanging from a bedpost, he perches on the edge of the footboard. Brendon’s expecting him to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Why?”

Frank takes his gloves off, slowly. “Because it’s when the dead get their chance to hunt once more, Brendon. Any mortal brought into the fray is lost to death or something much worse.”

Brendon’s breath catches in his throat. “Oh.” He didn’t know. “I didn’t know.”

“No harm, no foul, Bren. Just don’t wander outside during the storm without us.” Gabe kicks his boots against the bottom of the footboard to stress his words.

“Why didn’t it draw you and Frank in with me?” Brendon lets his satchel slide from his shoulder and sets his hat on the back of Frank’s chair.

Lady Luck ruffles her feathers out before hopping from the chair to Frank’s shoulder. From there, she flies to the table sitting nearby.

“You’ve been away from home for far too long” is the only thing she chirps. Apparently, pruning her feathers is more important than saying anything more.

“We’re used to old magic. Don’t dwell.” Gabe shrugs as he tips backward and falls on top of the heavy mass of quilts covering the bed.

Frank unbuttons his military coat. When he stands, he drapes the fabric across the back of the chair. There’s no more conversation about the storm raging about outside. Instead, Gabe rolls off of the bed and pulls out a deck of cards so he can set out to beat Frank at poker.

Brendon laughs through half of his hands. Gabe’s good at cards. Frank’s better. So, it’s a game of over-the-top bluffing and Frank cursing Gabe for cheating while Brendon hides his laughter behind a flimsy shield of wax-coated cards.

For seven days, the weather fails to clear. They spend the week at the inn. Gabe holds court in the dining area. The other guests hang off his every word. Frank snags a chair and watches from a slight distance with a bemused expression playing across his lips while Brendon uses the well-lit setting to his advantage. There’s a mechanical snake he’s trying to finish and the dimness of their room doesn’t help when he’s got the toy’s guts spread out on a flat surface.

On a whole, the experience is jovial. 

However, some nights, Brendon will find himself standing at the window in their room just staring out into the darkness without really seeing anything. The wards carved into the structure of the inn keeps the magic from tugging at his clothing, but it’s a close thing. Especially, when he wakes up a few hours before dawn, when everyone else is sound asleep, sure he’s heard the howl of a wolf ringing in his ears.

There’s longing settling into his bones. He can feel it. Frank and Gabe have to know it’s there.

By the seventh day, Gabe’s stories begin to fall flat and he retreats from the other guests to sit at Brendon’s side. Frank’s grin thins into something more akin to worry than mirth. Brendon hates that he’s the cause, but he can’t reign in the want.

He _has_ to go into the forest.

When the eighth day dawns, it’s cold and without a single cloud in the sky. Brendon’s awake. He’s been as such for hours, listening to phantom howls with his eyes closed. A warm hand pressing against his cheek pulls him out of his thoughts. Frank frowns at his state of dress; Brendon’s been in his travel clothing since he changed after waking.

If it wasn’t for his promise to Gabe, for how much he cares about both Frank and Gabe, Brendon would have already slipped out into the darkness.

“Can we?” Brendon’s not sure what he’s asking, not really. He just knows the forest is calling to him. Soon. Soon he’ll go.

Just not alone.

Frank smiles at him sadly. “Sure, Bren.” He sets his hand on Brendon’s shoulder and the weight should be grounding except for how it isn’t.

“I’m sorry.” The whisper is quiet and gets eaten by a loud yawn from behind them.

Gabe’s awake.

He shuffles closer and rests his chin on Brendon’s head. “What are you sorry for?” He yawns again, this time, around his words.

Brendon tries to smile but finds he can’t when he glances at Frank. There’s resignation and steely determination glinting in Frank’s eyes when he replies before Brendon can say anything.

“Nothing. There’s _nothing_ for anyone to be sorry for.” 

And that’s that.

They’re going to explore.

Maybe, they’ll come out alive. Brendon hopes they do.

He’s expecting their day to start off like a shot. However, Gabe holds them back.

They spend hours browsing shops for their wares. Frank shells out a few brass coins for a new lantern that he can hang from the end of his staff while Gabe buys a blanket he promptly hands to Frank when they’re standing outside once more. Frank’s pack has more room in it. It’s magicked to hold more than Gabe’s duffel because Brendon couldn’t weave an enlargement enchantment in with a waterproofing one. It was either more space or dry goods. The spells weren’t compatible. And no matter how often he tried to splice the two while he was back home, he just couldn’t make them work together.

It isn’t until the sun is starting to set that they make their way past the town gate. Brendon’s fidgety and Lady Luck settles for riding on the lip of Gabe’s duffel after she’s jostled from her normal perch one too many times. Even travel by satchel isn’t happening since the satchel is just as active as Brendon.

They’re standing at the signpost watching the sun sink under the horizon when the eerie sound of a howl breaks the silence around them. Brendon stares at the treeline. He’s about to bolt down the curvy trail when Gabe grabs the back of his coat.

“Together, Brendon. Not alone.”

Frank drags a match across his breast pocket, igniting the tip. He lights the lantern and dips his staff low to the ground, getting a feel for the weight. The match smulders from where it was discarded.

Another howl climbs into the air and Brendon jolts forward. He can’t be sure, but he might be mumbling to himself. He doesn’t have the time to examine what he might be saying. The howl sounds weaker than it ever has. He _has_ to go _now_.

Frank grips Brendon’s sleeve with his free hand while he swings the lantern forward with the other.

“Not too fast and don’t break my hold, okay?” Frank’s voice is steady. Solid.

Brendon nods. He can _try_.

The darkness envelops them when they make it past the treeline. Frank’s lantern cuts through the ebony the best it can. Shadows lurk everywhere. Brendon can feel their gazes on his back.

He shudders.

For the longest time, there’s not a single howl. And then. There is.

It’s this low, mournful note. Weak in too many ways to be comforting. Brendon stutters to a stop and Gabe bumps into his shoulder.

“What is it?”

Brendon shakes his head. He’s afraid. He doesn’t know what will happen if this wolf dies but he fears for what might if it does.

“It’s dying.”

Frank swings his staff to the left and then to the right. The trees aren’t as congested in this portion of the forest, even if there are broken limbs and uprooted trees -some of them barely older than saplings- generously scattered about everywhere.

“What is?”

Brendon tugs his collar against his throat. The night air is downright frigid.

“The wolf.”

There’s one last howl and Brendon strains in Frank’s grasp. He has to move faster.

The lantern changes positions. Gabe stretches it out farther as Frank urges Brendon to sprint through the debris by whispering _it’s okay, Bren, just don’t let go_. 

He’s breathing hard by the time he scrambles across the thick trunk of a felled aspen. Frank’s right there at his side. Gabe isn’t far behind; the lantern is swinging somewhere near his head as if it’s a spectral light or some well-trained will-o-wisp.

Beyond the fallen aspen, the treeline recedes to form a clearing ringed by barren hazels and green, green cypress. The dead grass shows signs of trampling and there are patches where only divots of dark earth remain.

However, that’s not what grabs his attention. At the far edge of the clearing stands a massive ash tree. A length of silver rope swishes from the lowest branch.

It’s not swaying in the wind unassisted.

Brendon tries to breathe and finds he hardly can. There’s a person snared in the rope. No. Not a person, but not a wolf either.

_Wolfkin_.

Anyone less would be long dead by now.

Moonlight bathes the clearing in cold light. Gabe gently sets Frank’s lantern down.

“Brendon, don’t-”

Whatever Gabe finishes with Brendon doesn’t hear for a slight whimper carries on the chilly wind. The wolfkin has finally lost its strength to howl. Brendon can’t stand to do nothing.

He shakes off Frank’s hold, shedding his satchel as he does so, and flat out _runs_ to the base of the ash tree. He’s not tall enough to support most of the wolfkin’s weight, but he does the best he can. He doesn’t know what else would help. The rope won’t listen to his magic unless he touches the blasted thing and it’s too far away.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He’s whispering reassurances under his breath when, suddenly, he’s carrying less weight. Gabe’s on the other side of the wolfkin, with an arm wrapped around the guy’s knees and the other under his feet.

“We’ve got you. Just relax, and we’ll have you cut down in no time.”

There’s the sound of rummaging. Brendon glances toward the clearing to find Frank rifling through Gabe’s duffel, looking for something.

“Gabe, I swear, if you lost your damn knife, I’ll kill you myself.” There’s an urgency in Frank’s voice that has Brendon doing his best to lift the wolfkin higher, closer to the rope, away from suffocation and death.

The hazels and cypress watch everything silently. They offer no help. However, staring at the hazels’ barren limbs, Brendon remembers something.

“Frankie, he put it in a coat pocket this morning, while you were getting breakfast.”

Frank pulls out of his crouch and stalks toward them. He rests his cheek against Gabe’s shoulder blade. “Which pocket, Saporta? I don’t have time to play _where’s the magical knife_.”

Gabe adjusts his hold on the mostly non-responsive wolfkin and grunts from the exertion.

“Left one. You’ll have to unsnap the button clasp.”

Frank snaps his jaw shut and grinds his teeth before huffing out “I know how to work a button clasp, thank you very much.”

Brendon turns his head and presses his face against his shoulder to keep from giggling. Even in tense situations, Frank and Gabe are conditioned to ruffle each other.

It takes several minutes for Frank to climb the tree. When he gets to the rope, he whispers _cut true, blade_ and the rope severs under the knife’s brash attention.

Gabe, with Brendon’s help, slowly lowers the wolfkin to the ground. Once they’re sitting, Brendon makes quick work of the remaining bindings. The silver bites at his fingertips, but he doesn’t pay the sting any heed. He’s not allergic to the metal strands, it’s only the magic woven in with the threads that he’s having any issue with. And, even then, there’s not much damage to be done.

Without the silver pressing into his flesh, the wolfkin’s skin smoothes out, tufts of coarse, black fur recedes and his ears shrink into round human ones instead of those of a true wolf. There’s no telling how many hours he spent suspended between forms, fighting to gain control of any sort.

Frank jumps from the ash branch. He lands on his feet, in a crouch, as if he’s some jungle cat stalking his prey. He’s the one to gather their supplies and drag everything to their little huddle of bodies. 

Gabe pulls his dark herbal bag from a duffel compartment. He’s bound to have a salve in there somewhere that might help heal the rope abrasions. There’s also treebark of some kind sitting at the bottom of the bag that when boiled in water should dull the pain.

Brendon can recite, by heart, most of the medicinals Gabe carries on his person. If not by name, then at least by function. Frank can as well. It was something Gabe taught them one winter after their stories began to wander into more serious territory.

Frank sets his lantern in front of them.

“I’m going for firewood. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Gabe shrugs at Frank without even looking up from his bag of medicines. Brendon’s too busy struggling out of his coat to shrug. He does make sure to remind Frank not to just steal tree limbs.

“Remember, you have to ask first.”

Frank glares at him. “Thank you for the needless reminder, I’ll take it under advisement.”

Brendon tries to smile innocently. He fails, mostly because it’s extremely cold out tonight and he’s finally divested of his coat. Not that he’ll freeze, he always carries a spare, even if it’s more a combination of three lesser coats instead of a proper winter coat.

Before he stalks off, Frank pulls the shrunken coats out of Brendon’s satchel. A few shakes and the fabric elongates. Brendon finds his vision blocked when Frank tosses the bundle at his head.

It takes a moment to flail into his secondary coat. After he does, Brendon pulls out the pair of gloves he keeps in the right pocket. His favorite pair are going to cover the wolfkin’s hands when Gabe’s finished bandaging them so he needs another pair if he doesn’t want to lose his fingers to frostbite.

He’s in the process of draping his winter coat across the wolfkin’s shoulders when dark eyes blink at him. Brendon tries not to startle, but it’s a near thing. He wasn’t expecting the exhausted wolfman to wake until morning. If even that.

“Hey.”

The wolfkin cocks his head to the side, as if he’s listening to something no one else can hear and whines when the motion pulls at the abused skin around his neck. Gabe tuts at him before applying a thick layer of salve across one of the wounds when the wolfkin is distracted.

“We’re friends, I promise you that. This salve will draw out the silver poisoning and help with the healing process.”

Brendon nods while Gabe talks. Maybe he’s reassuring enough.

“I heard you calling. We couldn’t get out here sooner. I’m sorry.”

There’s a clatter of wood as its dropped next to the lantern without tipping the thing over. Frank huffs and stares at Brendon. He never likes when Brendon apologizes for stuff he shouldn’t.

And there was _no_ way it was safe to be out until tonight. The state of the forest itself is testament to that.

Frank’s about to say something harsh centering around that notion when the wolfkin reaches out and touches Brendon’s wrist lightly, as if he is in awe.

“I wasn’t expecting a willow in the company of an aspen and an ash. I was asking for death, not salvation. _They_ got away and that’s all that matters.” 

Frank uses his lantern to light the tender stuffed at the bottom of the fire pile. “We’re not treefolk, even if Gabe’s tall enough to be a softwood. Brendon’s the farthest thing from a willow you’ll ever get-”

“Frank.” It’s more a call on Frank’s barbed tone than it is of his words. Gabe sets to wrapping the wolfkin’s left hand with a linen bandage. “He’s right, we’re not treefolk, though I’m still uncertain as to if the dwarves claim him. I know the sprites and the fae do not.”

Brendon slides his free hand up to his lips to hide the smile that’s trying to curl at the corners of his mouth. He’s far too used to Frank and Gabe to not smile at them regardless of their surrounding. As a distraction, he drops his hand and asks a question he probably shouldn’t.

“Who are _they?_. I mean, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, but maybe we can help you find them. Or you can just tell us your name and leave it at that. A fair trade.” 

The fire begins to crackle as the flames strengthen. Frank goes off to collect more firewood. They’ll need it if they’re going to camp out here in the cold.

Brendon’s not expecting an answer to his question. He’s actually under the impression that the wolfkin fell asleep on them. He’s not going to press for anything. Sleep is good for the soul. It’s recharging.

He’s in the process of pulling out his spare button down when the fingers that never left his other wrist slide down to press against his pulse point.

“I made them go. Tried to break the bonds. Only succeeded in pushing them out of harm’s way.”

The wolfkin’s voice is rough in spots and thin in others. He doesn’t give names, not for himself nor for the _they_ he keeps mentioning. Brendon’s heard of wolves with two or more mates before. It’s rare but not impossible.

There’s no other bond for a wolfkin to have with anyone that would be strong enough to warrant breaking for safety. To the best of Brendon’s scant knowledge on the subject, mate bonds can not be that easily severed. Only death can do that. However, a command can be given if the mates aren’t wolfkin that would effectively compel the mates to leave any dangerous area, with or without their mated wolf. 

Brendon can’t imagine doing something like that. He couldn’t give Frank and Gabe up seven years ago, and he can’t now. They’re his, regardless of anything that might get in their way. If one of them is trapped, they’re all cornered. That’s all there is to it.

“They’re going to be angry when they see you again.” Gabe tries to gentle his voice as he carefully removes the wolfkin’s unbandaged hand from Brendon’s wrist but Brendon can tell he’s thinking about how he would feel if Brendon or Frank did such a thing to him.

Gabe would not be happy. Not at all.

Brendon touches his arm, trying to be reassuring without saying anything, when Frank reappears with more branches and tender. Of course, he notices the touch and Brendon can’t help but glance at the wolfkin in sympathy. Frank’ll ask later and they’ll fill him in, but for now, that look is easily translatable.

_He’s lost those he cares for and I’m thinking about what we’ve been through._

After the wolfkin falls into a fitful sleep curled up in Brendon’s coat, Frank rests his head against Brendon’s neck and wraps an arm around his waist. It’s a rare showing of excessive emotion that doesn’t happen often when they’re awake. Hand holding has never counted, while hugs and clinging always have.

“They’re not dead, right? We can help him find them so they can yell at him for his stupidity.”

Gabe shuffles closer and leans against Brendon’s side. He reaches out and tossels Frank’s hair. “He tried to break his mate bonds and only succeeded in banishing them from the forest. So we’re doing this?”

Brendon closes his eyes and listens to the fire crackle and pop. They asked for an adventure. Looks like they’ve been granted their wish.

“Looks like we are. The trees said they’d be sentinels tonight. We can sleep without a watch.” Frank pulls away long enough to tug blankets from his pack.

Gabe fans one out and drapes it over the wolfkin while Brendon enchants the other to expand until it can comfortably cover three people huddled together.

They fall asleep not far from the base of the ash tree, curled against each other while the fire continues to blaze merrily. 

The morning dawns bright and Brendon wakes up blinking away sunlight. It’s mildly painful. He scoots enough to sit up. Frank and Gabe are still asleep on either side of him, which won’t be the case for much longer seeing as Brendon’s not the most graceful when he’s in the middle.

The only time he has been, lately, was back at the inn. He would crawl down to the footboard and slip out of the bed without making much noise. Whereas here, they’re jammed together over frozen ground and being outside puts them all on guard regardless of the cypress and hazels watching over them.

“How long have you three been together?” The voice is low and almost hard to hear.

Brendon rubs at his eyes. He’s still waking up and the sight of the wolfkin from the night before stirring a pot of something that sounds like it’s simmering is a bit much for his brain at this hour.

“Huh...oh ummm. We met when I was fifteen. I’ll be, uh twenty-four in the spring.” His words sound slow and confused to his own ears. It’s not that he’s confused. He’s just, not exactly sure what he’s being asked. Coupled with being awake for less than five minutes means he’s having trouble completely understanding the full implication of the question.

The wolfkin grins at him. “You sound like you’re not sure, Brendon, _right_?” At Brendon’s nod he places the pot back on what’s left of last night’s fire. “I hope you don’t mind, I woke up early and rummaged through your things. I only found oats and water.”

A smile tugs at Brendon’s lips when the wolfkin makes a face as he mentions oats. It’s hilarious, in a way.

“I’m _sure_ , it’s just early. And it’s fine. You didn’t have to make breakfast.”

At the word breakfast, Gabe stretches at Brendon’s side before lifting up and resting his cheek against Brendon’s sleep-rumpled hair. He mumbles a sleepy _good morning_ into Brendon’s hair before saying anything else.

“Oh, breakfast. How are you feeling? I’d be more polite, but I don’t know your name so, direct and to the point it is.”

There’s a muttered grumble from the ground when Frank rolls onto his side and tries to hide from the sunlight by pressing his forehead against Brendon’s hip. “You’re never direct and to the point, Gabe. I’ve walked circular paths more too the point than you’ll ever be. Also, you’re too damn loud.”

The wolfkin pulls the pot off of the barely lit fire. He’s laughing and Brendon’s reminded of the horses back home when he’d brush them while they were in a good mood. 

“I like you three.” The laughter dies and the wolfkin stuffs his hands into borrowed coat pockets. “I feel better. The salve worked, thank you. I wasn’t expecting anyone to hear me. Last night, Brendon, you said you’d help me find my, ummm, _friends_. Are you still offering?”

Gabe straightens, his cheek no longer resting on Brendon’s head. He’s awake now, and there are things to be done before they leave for the day.

“He wouldn’t have mentioned it if we were going to play _take backs_. On one condition, though.”

The wolfkin stiffens and Brendon turns his head to stare at Gabe. It’s not a secret that the guy in front of them has nothing of worth on his person.

Frank shakes his head and leans around Brendon to jab Gabe in the chest with a finger. “And I’m the cruel one, Saporta? We didn’t talk about conditions last night.”

Gabe takes the jab good-naturedly. He pats Frank’s shoulder a few times. “No, you still hold that title, Frankie. What would the dwarves say if I took that away from you? I was just saying we don’t know his name and you interrupted me before I could be reassuring.”

Brendon stands and goes to Frank’s pack to pull out the set of bowls he carries to go along with the pot that’s already been found. Gabe pauses to take a breath and roll his shoulders before addressing the wolfkin again.

“What I was going to say before everyone jumped to conclusions, is that we can’t, or at least, I can’t keep mentally dubbing you the Wolfman. So a name in exchange for help. Maybe a few descriptors of your mates so we know who to look for, but that’s it. No walking across hot coals or selling of your first born child. I know it’s a hefty price, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Sometimes Gabe tries too hard to be disarming and Brendon smiles because the ensuing thread of words are always amusing when strung together. The wolfkin must think the same thing for he laughs again before pulling his hands out of coat pockets and giving them his name.

“Pete.”

Frank takes the bowls from Brendon’s hands. “Now that proper introductions have been made, it’s time to shut up and eat. There’s no telling how long it will take to find our way out.”

Breakfast isn’t the best they’ve ever had, but then oatmeal has to be stirred a certain way for it to be perfect. If you don’t follow every set of stirs to a _t_ then you either have paste or oat soup. Brendon doesn’t really care. Food is food. He can be picky when they get home.

Lady Luck flutters her wings before landing on his shoulder. “The trees are tricksy. I do not like them.” Her trilling whistle is low. She sounds aggravated and unamused.

Brendon reaches up and pats her crest lightly. “Were they mean?”

There’s a slight ruffle of feathers and a chime-like huff. That’s a _no_ then.

“They snub newer magic. This will be a problem.” Lady Luck presses her tiny head against Brendon’s neck before launching off his shoulder. No doubt, she’ll spend most of the day in the air, especially if she dislikes the trees for not giving her the time of day.

Pete watches her fly away. Brendon’s expecting him to say something about Cardinals or talking Birds. He doesn’t.

They spend three days wandering the forest in circles. Outside of the clearing, the trees are as misleading as Lady Luck warned and Pete has trouble remembering where he last was before The Hunt began. There’s not a spell that works in determining the way out and Frank’s compass needle just keeps spinning and spinning and spinning.

It makes for _fun_ times, especially when Frank gets exasperated over the trail vanishing or the sound of rushing water that _never_ turns into anything solid. It’s as if even sounds in the forest are having a grand, old time playing tricks on his ears. They’re traveling mostly blind, the only bright spot in the gloom being Frank himself, who can actually track when he has to. He’s just unhappy with there being no points of reference. It’s a challenge, and Frank can’t help but angrily push forward.

Lady Luck helps when she can, but it’s as if the trees keep shifting and blocking the path she claims to see from overhead.

Pete tells them stories about his life before. How he met his mates, who are brothers -which is not something Brendon ever expected, to be honest. The stunts he’s pulled off over the years and everything inbetween that he can think to elaborate.

He’s wearing Brendon’s spare coats and gloves now. Apparently, Brendon’s heavy winter coat and gloves were starting to irritate his still healing skin. Magic sensitivity was how he put it. The fact that Brendon rarely wears his spare clothing means that the fabric has less exposure to the magic than his well-worn ones.

It’s the first time he’s ever heard of such a thing. Sure, his magic is strong, but he’s never had to think about build-up. Though, perhaps, that explains why, even with the tight collar, he feels at home in the thick winter coat Greta and Spencer bought for him. His magic has settled into every stitch by now and it’s welcoming.

Midday on the fourth day, they’re resting under a birch tree. Well, it’s more like they’re ringed around the juvenile’s trunk with Lady Luck set on his knee tilting her head this way and that, while they munch on the tree bark Gabe harvested for lunch. Pete doesn’t seem very happy about a decidedly non-meat diet. However, he doesn’t run off in search of winter hares or squirrels to boil or eat raw.

Gabe’s telling a story about the sea while Brendon keeps interrupting him with random snatches of song. It’s fun trying to find just the right stanza to sing to get him to pause and lose his train of thought. Frank spends the whole break wiping at the glass walls of his lantern with a tattered rag. Occasionally, he’ll pick apart Gabe’s story for the hell of it or argue with Brendon about his choice in lyrics.

They’re packing up to start moving again when Pete cocks his head to the side as if he’s listening to something not even Lady Luck can hear. When the noise doesn’t seem to carry, he shakes his head. For the next hour, they do nothing more than walk, hopefully, in a straight line. Lady Luck sings when she gets bored and conversations spring up and die down at a steady pace.

There’s a lull in the chatter when Pete suddenly speaks up.

“You mesh well together. How did that happen?” His voice is an unsteady mix of mild awe and envy sprinkled with a dash of jealousy.

Brendon can understand. It must be terribly hard to be mated to siblings who have no compunction to muddle their blood bond with that of a sexual one. Not that Gabe and Frank are Brendon’s in that way, or vice versa. Pete only thinks they are and that’s all that matters in this context.

As always, when there’s an opening to be harsh, Frank takes it. “We’re not siblings.” He doesn’t pause to be dramatic or try and explain to Pete that they’re _not_ together. He just goes straight for blunt and leaves it at that.

Gabe hisses out a low, angry _Frank_. Which doesn’t end anything.

Frank pauses at point. He turns and glares at Gabe. “I’m only being honest. He asked a question, so I’m giving him the courtesy of telling the truth. We’re not related, which makes _this_ easier. Natural.”

Brendon runs a hand across his knit cap. He doesn’t have a single clue as to what Frank means by _this_.

“Pete, I’m sorr-” Brendon’s not sure what he’s attempting to apologize for: his ignorance on Frank’s word choice, the truth that being unrelated _does_ make things easier, or Frank’s biting tone. Maybe it’s a combination of all three.

It doesn’t matter, though, because there’s suddenly the sound of chittery laugher buzzing in his ears in a distracting manner. Pete must hear the noise too because his head cocks to the left and his vision goes distance as if he’s trying to parse out where the sound is coming from.

Lady Luck takes to the air without saying a word. Either she doesn’t know what the laughter belongs to or she does and thinks it best to stay out of the way. Pete doesn’t seem to think the same because he whispers something under his breath about goblins before taking off in a direction that looks to be random at best.

Goblins. Well, that’s great.

Brendon’s not a fan of the evil, little buggers. He’s only had the chance to meet one once. It was alone and vicious. The stable hands had to use iron to bind the thing to protect the horses from harm.

His father later explained that the vile creature was a pack animal. Being alone meant that either he was lost, abandoned or scouting for trouble.

An abandoned or lost goblin is better off dead before it gets a chance to inflict damage on people or property because their destruction signals other goblins to the area. It’s a mating call of sorts. A way for a singular wretch to once more find a home amongst brethren.

Pete’s mentioned goblins before. In fact, the pests were the reason he and his got waylaid in the forest in the first place. Brendon doesn’t want to imagine how much he must hate the mischief-makers.

Frank sighs. “We’re following him. Come on. No one deserves to face those teeth munchers alone.”

With something substantial to track, he’s finally able to pick up a trail. Pete’s not far enough ahead to worry. Brendon can still hear the wicked laughter if he strains to listen to the wind as it whips by. There’s no howling and the air is empty, no scent of spilt blood cloying the crispness.

Gabe spends their trek forward admonishing Frank for being brash. Neither he nor Frank mention Pete’s gaffe. To Brendon, he seems more aggravated with Frank for bringing up Pete’s inability to ever find cohesion as opposed to setting the record straight.

“What does it matter, anyway?” When confused, Brendon will _always_ ask questions. His mother used to rest her head in her hands when he had trouble grasping something because his inquiries were rapid-fire and ceaseless.

“We’re not together, so it’s a moot point.”

Frank and Gabe both still. Their bodies go rigid. Frank’s fingers are white-knuckled around his staff. Gabe’s eyes are wide and Brendon feels like he’s said something terribly wrong.

“You’re the one who put the notion in his head.” Frank’s words are as sharp as shards of broken glass.

Gabe places his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Brendon, do you want to tell him he’s mistaken?” His voice is slow and deliberate, sad.

Brendon pulls his knit cap off and cards shaky fingers through his warm hair. The truth is, no, he doesn’t want to set Pete right. He _likes_ the assumption as it stands.

“I....I...no, I don’t. We’re not together, but I don’t care. I like being able to pretend, at least, for a little while that we’re more than just friends.” He words start out weak as a newborn foal stumbling as it tries to walk for the first time. They find their footing when he gets to _but I don’t care_ and by the time he’s finished he’s standing straight staring at his friends with resolve.

He won’t let himself feel embarrassed or wrong for his emotions. Gabe and Frank, they’ve been his world for so long. There’s nothing exciting or joyous waiting for him without them at his side. Sure, he’d survive without them, but that existence would be bleak and hopeless.

A rain cloud forever hanging over his head, drenching him to the bone, over and over and over again.

“I _told_ you we needed to talk about this before we left the bubble. He’s willfully blind at the worst moments, but you said _no, Frankie, he gets it. We’ll be fine_.” Frank knocks Gabe in the leg with his staff. “This is not fine.” 

Brendon blinks. He wasn’t expecting that. Gabe barks out a laugh and shoves at Frank.

“I was wrong. It happens. Don’t crow too loudly at that confession.” The grin slides off his face when he turns his attention back to Brendon. “What if we _were_ more than friends? Would that be acceptable?” 

_Acceptable_?

Brendon blinks again. Of course, it’s acceptable. He’s nodding furiously before his brain can catch up with his body.

“ _Yes_ , please.”

A cacophony of hisses and painful shrieks break the moment. Brendon shoves his knit hat over his ears once more. He would have liked to kiss Frank before having to run off in pursuit of their continuing adventure. Lord knows he’s dreamed of kissing both Frank and Gabe for months, but that’ll have to wait a little longer.

Frank lets his hand slide down his staff a few inches. “We can talk more later. Right now, we need to go.”

And like that, they’re running through the forest, Frank leading the way.

When envisioning goblins, plural, Brendon was imagining a throng of squirrel-sized pests. Several dozen green, black creatures at the least, maybe even more than that. Not a handful of cackling goblins using natural magic to control tree branches and roots for their own perverse amusement.

Pete’s using a hazel branch to swipe at the goblins when they get close. Two are dead, or Brendon hopes that they are. He toes at a limp arm with the tip of his shoe. The thing doesn’t move, so he steps over it while ducking a tree branch that comes down to try and smack him in the head.

He won’t be much help in this fight. Not that Gabe will be either. Frank, though, sweeps into the fray, using his staff to knock into the goblins and shove erratic roots out of the way.

The goblins jump, squeal, and hiss. “It’ssssss an asssssspen. Fire warrior. Leave ussssss be.”

Pete growls and Brendon’s about to take his coat off to use as a net when he’s yanked to the ground by a root that’s wrapped itself around his ankle. His elbow cracks against the frozen ground painfully. Thankfully. he doesn’t break any bones. The root begins to drag him and he realizes that they’re not alone.

The goblins have enchanted a hollowed-out elm into a cage of sorts. There’s a guy already shoved in amongst the writhing roots and branches. Brendon yells out as much to Gabe while fighting with the root around his ankle.

He’s never been a natural magic user. Anything breathing or living, he has no power over. Lady Luck is an exception because she wove her magic in with his when she first followed him.

Elm branches scratch at his arms and neck. It’s a fight Brendon can tell he’s losing. He can’t even twist far enough to watch Pete and Frank finish off the last of the goblins because the elm has decided it isn’t going to stop even though the goblin magic should already be dissipating.

There’s yelling. Lots of it. The sound hurts his ears. He can’t figure out why, until he realises the elm’s been systematically cutting into any soft spot that it can reach and he’s been twisting more than enough to expose plenty of skin for bloodletting.

It was once a common ritual for those of magical blood to feed their gardens drops of blood as a gift of thanks. His mother used to venture into her garden at dawn on the last day of spring with a sharp knife in hand. The roses would produce beautiful blooms for her and in return she would give them blood as a gift offering.

The elm has gotten a taste for crimson and it likes the tingle of magic, or whatever it is that Brendon’s blood tastes like. He curses and tries to fight the branches and roots. He’s no longer being tugged toward the center of the tree’s trunk. Oh no, of course, he isn’t. Offerings are for being laid at the feet of the receiver, not being held at their bosom.

His vision grays. The elm wouldn’t kill him. It isn’t nearly as stupid as to slaughter a good thing.

But it is greedy.

One minute, he’s trapped and the next there’s the _thrack_ , _thrack_ , _thrack_ of an axe blade hacking into wood. 

Cool fingers touch his throat and he coughs. Gabe tugs him into a hug while Frank rakes shaking fingers through his hair. Brendon closes his eyes and burrows his head against Gabe’s chest. He feels tired and wrung out.

“Do you have a match?”

The question pulls him away from clinging to Gabe and Frank. There’s a man standing close. He’s leaning on an ash-handled axe. Brendon rubs at his eyes with a dirty hand. The man looks the same as the one in the elm cage.

Frank drags a match from his pocket and hands it over. “We don’t usually condone the slaughter of living trees, but I think we’ll make an exception this time.”

Brendon whips his head around and fights the dizziness to see the man set the elm tree on fire. The tree’s been chopped into pieces. Only something enchanted could make such quick work of something that old.

Very few woodcutters can handle enchanted axes. They’re much too attuned to the natural world to not chafe at material magic. It seems this woodcutter is either fine with the discomfort or doesn’t feel magic -natural or material- period.

Gabe pulls out his medicinal bag and begins to clean Brendon’s cuts. Frank and Pete sweep the goblin bodies into the slowly growing fire while the woodcutter adds more and more pieces of the elm to the flames.

They spend the night near the flames that gut and flicker before blazing only to almost go out again. Elms are notoriously bad at burning steadily. Brendon thanks the woodcutter for freeing him and learns the man’s name in exchange. Ray’s been tracking the goblins ever since they uprooted a holly tree from the center of his village. The foul monsters aim to trick the fairies living amongst the leaves and berries into venturing out so they can eat them. 

“The vermin broke the wards a few nights ago and swarmed in, carting the holly off while everyone slept. One of our newer residents heard them as they were leaving. He alerted the night watch. He and his brother attempted to come with but the forest would not let them pass.” 

Ray’s voice is strong, albeit somewhat higher in pitch than what Brendon would expect from a man of his stature and occupation. He’s a solid storyteller. Not so dry and short as to be curt nor so gorged on detail as to be bloated with prose.

Pete sits up straighter when Ray mentions brothers. Brendon exchanges glances with Frank and Gabe. It could just be a coincident, but why take chances?

“Newer residents?” Gabe asks before Pete has a chance ask the myriads of questions he, no doubt, wants to lay into.

Ray nods and ties his long, curly hair back with a length of leather. The strands keep escaping and Brendon’s watched him pull his hair back several times in the last hour alone.

“The village is beyond the treeline. We offer sanctuary for all those who have come through the forest with the need for a new home. Gerard and his brother, Mikey, stumbled into our village at dawn the second day of the Death Hunt. It isn’t the first time that this has happened, nor will it be the last. The elders said they could stay until they felt the need to leave.” 

Pete wrings his hands and his teeth sharpen before he can control the minor shift in form. Ray doesn’t bat an eyelash at the display. He’s a very peculiar woodcutter, not even tensing in the presence of a wolfkin.

Brendon wants to ask him about his past adventures, the village where he lives, and a million other things that might illuminate _why_ he’s so unruffled. However, to do so would take away from Pete and his inquiries on Mikey’s health, Gerard’s mood, and any other tiny detail Ray might remember about them.

The night stays cold and Brendon rests his head on Frank’s shoulder. He drifts in and out of sleep while Ray and Pete talk. Gabe pets at his hair constantly. Brendon kisses him sleepily without meaning to. Gabe smiles at him when they part and Frank nips at his lips before telling him to sleep. It’s not a command Brendon has any issues following.

Dawn creeps up on them slowly. Clouds shroud much of the sun’s light. The fire from the night before smoulders, gray, gray smoke slowly reaching ephemeral fingers skyward.

Pete’s whispering to Ray when Brendon wakes.

“They’re treefolk. Only they claim they aren’t. If anyone could find a holly, it would be them.”

Brendon can’t understand why Pete insists on calling them that. If Brendon was a true willowfolk, the elm wouldn’t have attacked as it did. That’s not even mentioning how easy natural magic would be if that was fact.

Nails scratch at his scalp. Frank’s awake as well.

“Frank could find a tree, easily.” Gabe’s amused and also awake.

Brendon grins and yawns without meaning too. His body feels heavy. He’s still exhausted, but he’s bound to stay that way for a few days.

Frank huffs out a breath. “Your faith in my skills is appreciated, but let’s not forget the clan of goblins that come with said tree.”

“We just need a better plan this time.” Brendon presses a chaste kiss to Frank’s cheek before giggling when Frank smiles at him in a rare way.

Gabe breaks the moment by being a smarmy master of snark. Brendon kisses him into silence.

Frank shakes his head and calls them all idiots. “So what type of plan?”

With Ray and Pete’s help, they come up with a strategy to track the goblins, lure them out of their home, kill them, and retrieve the holly. If they’re lucky, they’ll be in the village a few days before Christmas Eve, holly tree in their possession.

Their timetable depends on how cooperative the rest of the trees are.

The hazels and cypress are nice as are the occasional birches. However, the majority are not. Elms trip them as do maples. The dogwoods tangle their branches together in such a way that they have to double back and find a better way through.

Ray threatens to use his axe. Pete continually stops him. The elm was warning enough. If they go about chopping down the whole forest then they’re just giving the place a reason to trap them.

This isn’t the safe spots where Ray fells trees to sustain his livelihood. It’s the heart of an ancient forest. The rules aren’t the same here as it is on the fringes of the treeline. 

Lady Luck sticks to Brendon’s shoulder. She twitters and whistles sharply if a tree limb tries to reach out for him. She’s on guard and as tense as Frank and Gabe are.

“I wasn’t there before.” 

Brendon runs a finger over her crest. He doesn’t blame her for staying far from the goblins. They could kill her easily. A Bird would be a boon for their magic. A boost of power that none of them need.

“I am glad you were not.”

The goblin clan stays hidden for four days. Ray and Pete spend hours maligning the creatures. Frank uses his staff to bat away wayward tree branches and roots. He, Ray, and Pete are doing their best to track the goblins. Gabe stays out of their way. Brendon uses the time to teach Gabe spells he couldn’t when they were in the bubble.

They’re mostly water enchantments that he’s never been able to master. If anyone could get the hang of the spells, it would be Gabe. The best Brendon could ever do was enchanting a metal rod to find water for him. There’s a spell for touching the ground and drawing water to the surface, but he has always failed.

If it wasn’t for Greta, their timeless bubble world would be cold and clinical. A barren room with little warmth. Brendon could build the supports and the doorway, just not the contents. Like he’s said before, he’s material, not natural.

Gabe practices by touching the trunks of the more temperamental trees. Eventually, moisture beads up from the cracks in the bark only to freeze in the chill. The trees whisper amongst themselves. After that, they settle and offer no more resistance.

In reply, Gabe stops experimenting on them.

Brendon smiles because he _knew_ Gabe was more attuned to the natural world. The oceans never scared him during his travels. People were _always_ the unknown quantity.

A few hours after dawn on the fifth day, Brendon pauses when the sound of laughter scampers off in the distance. Everyone freezes. The goblin laughs again.

Frank sets his pack on the ground, silently. They set traps as the sun was rising and have been waiting to see if their snares would bring them good fortune. There’s the violent sound of a trap triggering followed by the laughter twisting into a shrill, haunting wail that has Brendon clapping hands over his ears.

It seems their plan is finally bearing fruit. Now, all they have to do is wait for the goblin to draw out his fellow fiends. It should be easier to pinpoint their hovel or burrow then.

The goblin continues to wail. Pete sniffs the air before moving to hide behind a birch. There are more goblins on their way. Brendon can hear their answering wails. 

Everything is going as planned, until he notices how pale Gabe’s face has gone. Brendon snags Frank’s sleeve and looks over at Gabe again. His fingers are clenched tightly around his duffel handle, knuckles as ashen white as his face.

Frank whispers something to Ray before dropping back with Brendon toward Gabe, who has somehow lagged behind without even Brendon realizing it. Gabe doesn’t respond when Brendon says his name. Many times.

After a few pokes and prods to Gabe’s chest without any response, Frank catches Brendon’s wrist.

“Bren, be still for me, okay? I’ve seen this before. We need to stay calm and wait it out.”

Frank’s voice is slow and steady. There’s something sad lurking in the depths of his words; the same sorrow that crept up on him when Brendon asked about coming here in the first place. It reminds him of the years they’ve been separated. Of all the things he doesn’t know. Of every hurt and slight he couldn’t prevent.

Brendon hates the way he feels, as if he’s powerless to do _anything_. He tries to speak, to ask what Frank’s seen but the trapped goblin’s wail reaches an ear splitting volume before abruptly cutting out. Mournful calls screech from every direction, clawing up into the air, fighting with each other to be heard, the free goblins lamenting their fallen kin.

Gabe instantly drops his duffel and takes several steps backward. His back collides against the trunk of an adult juniper tree that shouldn’t even be in this forest to start with and he slides down the trunk, Brendon and Frank doing their best of catch him as he goes.

They end up at the base of the juniper, Gabe cradling his head between his hands while he mutters something Brendon has to strain to hear.

“Don’t listen to them. Don’t. Don’t. You _can’t_...”

Frank curses under his breath and Brendon closes his eyes for one second, and only one second. He doesn’t have time for more than that. He has an idea on what Gabe’s thinking about.

“Sirens.” His voice is small. Fragile. Frank nods.

The story about mermaids was just a cover. A way to pretend that something much scarier didn’t exist in the deep. The goblin’s wail must have triggered a memory or... something. Brendon doesn’t really know. He just doesn’t _know_.

Frank wraps his fingers around Gabe’s wrists and leaves them there. “Gabe, we’re not. We’re not listening, okay? We’re not even at sea. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

There’s the sound of a shuddering breath being taken in and slowly released. Brendon places a hand on Gabe’s thigh as lightly as he can. Nothing more than a reminder.

_I’m right here, you’re not alone. Never alone._

“That’s good. Just keep breathing and listening to my voice. We’re on land, do you remember?”

Brendon can’t fathom what Frank went through to teach himself this. He’s never been this calm, this centering. It’s like walking into a room you thought was once white -barren- only to blink and notice the walls are covered in flowers, splashed with colors you never knew existed. 

Gabe nods slowly and Frank continues speaking in that oddly comforting, steady voice.

“That’s good. We’re safe and everything is fine. Do you think you can come back to us now?”

It takes a few more minutes before Gabe looks at them. He’s clenching his jaw tightly. Frank stands and offers him a hand up. Gabe takes it with more force than he normally would.

He’s not happy.

Brendon stands and rests his head against Gabe’s arm. He can’t have Gabe blaming himself for something that isn’t his fault. No one should have to feel that way.

Not ever.

“We need to find the guys. Make sure the goblins didn’t swarm them while I fell apart.” Gabe’s voice is clipped and curt. It’s a spot on imitation of Frank’s usual bluster and bite.

“We can talk about it if you want?”

Gabe shakes his head at Brendon’s words. “No time. I’m fine. There’s nothing to talk about.”

Pete howls in the distance. Frank picks up his pack and staff without pressing the issue. For now, that is. Brendon knows he’ll ask Gabe to tell them what happened. But, that’ll come later. Either after they have the holly tree with them or they’re home, tucked away from the elements and all phantom threats.

Soon. Soon. Just not right this moment.

A second howl follows the first. Brendon adjusts his satchel strap. They’re so close to the end of this particular adventure. He can feel it. The same as he always has.

It’s like getting to the last few pages of a good book. Your soul aches knowing that the final word is soon approaching while your spirit yearns for that completion. It’s a need that must be fully realized.

Just because one journey has ended doesn’t mean another can’t form from the ashes of the old one. Brendon’s almost certain this is only the start of many more adventures to come, both in this realm and others, including the one they’ll soon call home together.

But that’s the future. First they have to see this through. He’s getting ahead of himself. Again.

When they find Pete and Ray, most of the goblins are dead. It’s extremely anticlimactic. By midday, all of the goblins have been disposed of. There’s a funeral pyre burning a few feet away from the opening of a small cave.

The holly tree is sheltered away from the greedy flames. Its leaves are wilted and browning around the edges but the spirit buried in the wood still beats strongly. If they can replant it in its proper home, it should be fine. There might be minor stunting of limb growth for a few years, but that’s to be expected.

The fae will be understanding.

Brendon stares at the red, rust-colored moss clinging to the rocks below him -the ones that surround the mouth of the cave- before shifting his eyes upward. He’s sitting above the cave entrance watching everyone. Gabe insisted on helping Pete pitch goblin bodies into the fire so they’re using fallen limbs to poke and prod the lifeless bodies toward the pyre.

Frank’s assisting Ray in constructing a makeshift sled of sorts. They’re using a few hazel branches and the spare coil of rope Frank keeps at the bottom of his canvas pack.

Brendon should be helping.

However, he finds he can’t. Well, he _could_ but he’d only be in the way. His thoughts are a jumble and his feet would only follow the mental mire.

There’s so many paths from here on out that could be taken, not just the trail that’s peeking out from underneath a cluster of winter ferns. It’s a lot to take in. Brendon thought he knew what to expect. He _thought_ he was prepared.

But.

What if he isn’t?

A branch over his head snaps and cracks causing a thin, elongated shadow to cut across the ground below as a bird alights on the edge of the limb. Lady Luck tilts her head downward until she’s looking at him upside down.

She clicks her beak twice before straightening. She then drops to Brendon’s head with barely a sound.

“You’re worrying needlessly again.”

Brendon inclines his head downward and raises his hand, open with his palm turned skyward. Lady Luck tumbles into his hand. She chirps at him sharply. She’s never enjoyed that particular move, but then, he’s never cared for her perching on his head.

A sharp nip to his pointer finger has him shaking his hand while Lady Luck moves to his knee. “The world continues to spin. It is time to go home, once more. You mustn’t dwell on endings. Look forward to the new beginning.”

Brendon lifts his chin from his chest and watches Gabe talk with Pete while Frank tugs on the rope to test its strength.

“I’m not _dwelling_.”

His words earn him a peck to his knee as Lady Luck gives him a hard stare. She doesn’t say anything. Brendon’s not dwelling. He’s _not_.

It’s just.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe, he’s still wound up in how easily the goblins were dealt with. Maybe, he was expecting more to happen. Maybe, less. The confusion and uncertainty keep his thoughts tied up in ragged knots that he’s having trouble plucking apart.

There’s also the worry that Frank or Gabe will decide to stay. It’s not a secret that Pete will be doing so. The guys work well with Pete and Ray. If they wished to stick around, they’d be welcomed with open arms.

Brendon would stay, as well. Only the Realm of Magic isn’t his home anymore. The city is. He likes it there.

Perhaps it is too much asking them to give this world up for another.

Lady Luck ruffles her feathers. Once, twice, thrice and then she’s flying off. Brendon sighs and lets his weight pitch him from his perch over the lip of the cave. His landing isn’t as graceful as Frank’s usually are.

Gabe pauses mid-sentence to clap. Frank stands and dusts dirt from his pant legs.

“I’m not carrying you out of here if you break something.”

Which is a blatant lie. Frank would.

Gabe laughs. “That’s because you’re a gnome princess, short stack. Your kingdom would string us up by our laces if we crushed you.”

Frank glares at him and Brendon giggles. He’s selfish for wanting this in his life, forever. But he can’t help it. He _needs_ Frank and Gabe just as surely as the plants need rainfall to live.

“Gabe, you’ll carry me, then, right?” Brendon smiles brightly and tilts his head trying for innocence. He’s sure he looks nothing of the sort but that’s half the fun.

Frank shakes his head and goes back to testing the ropes while Ray keeps a steady hold of the longest hazel branch. Pete drops to sit on the edge of an old stump. He’s grinning like a fool.

Brendon doesn’t get a chance to ask him why he’s grinning so widely because arms snake around his waist and Gabe lifts him off the ground.

Brendon laughs and wraps his fingers around Gabe’s wrists. “I didn’t mean right now.”

Gabe shrugs and Brendon feels himself jostle with the motion. “You didn’t specify.”

It’s good to know that whatever happened out at sea didn’t damage Gabe completely. That he’s still capable of mischief.

Pete barks out a laugh that’s shot through with amusement. Even Ray’s smiling.

Brendon shakes his head and kicks his feets against Gabe’s shins as lightly as possible.

“You can put me down.”

And Gabe does. Only he’s been moving toward Frank ever since he picked Brendon up so when he lets go, Frank’s right there to catch Brendon as he stumbles.

“You knew he was going to do that.”

Frank’s right. Brendon _knew_ but it’s not as if he could pass up an opportunity like that. 

He spins and loops his arms around Gabe’s neck. “Thank you, but I meant if I couldn’t walk.”

Gabe kisses him. It’s nothing drastic or intense. Brendon doesn’t think he’s ready for that. Everything between the three of them is still young. Not fragile, but not yet as strong as it will be one day.

Frank scoffs at something Ray says that Brendon misses. Gabe breaks the kiss and Brendon drops his arms so he can turn and tug Frank closer.

“You’re missing the fun, princess.” Is all he can think to say against Frank’s lips before he kisses him. Frank glares but doesn’t push Brendon away.

When the kiss ends he scratches his nails down the back of Brendon’s neck. “Gabe’s right, you’re an imp, Brendon.” His words aren’t malicious. And it’s not like Brendon minds being called that.

He’s fine with it.

Gabe laughs again and drags Frank into a kiss that has Brendon staring transfixed.

The sound of tree limbs scraping against loose earth, sadly, breaks the moment. Ray and Pete have, apparently, moved the holly to her sled.

It’s time to go.

Brendon almost forgot: they’re not quite finished with this journey.

But soon, they will be and he can finally stop worrying about _maybes_ or _perhaps_. Until then, it’s time to move again.

Ray knows his way to his village from here. They can make it there by midday tomorrow if they leave now and travel through the night. They’re all tired. Brendon’s sure they’ll stop frequently enough to rest, though. Of course, they could camp here for the night. Set out before dawn. However, with the village near and the holly so close to home, no one wants to dally.

As they walk, their conversations are light, airy and bright. Ray talks about his home. Brendon has to admit, the picture Ray paints with his words is inviting. It’s _almost_ enticing.

But.

No.

Brendon has a cozy, little cottage in a city he adores. If the guys stay, he will too.That’s just how it is.

He hopes they won’t. That the past seven years have shown them more than enough of this realm. That they’ll want change.

As it is, Gabe’s already agreed. However, sometimes, decisions change. And that’s where Brendon finds his worry resting, in that shadowy dip dug into the line.

“I swear, I didn’t expect a brownie to follow Mikey home. A unicorn, maybe but-” Pete’s voice is excited. He’s already thinking of tomorrow’s promise.

Brendon finds himself hoping that Mikey and Gerard will be forgiving. He thinks they might for they sound like they’re good people. Pete’s been through enough as it is and he was only trying to protect his own. He deserves to have a safe harbor to forever shore upon.

Lady Luck coasts by on a stiff breeze and her chipping causes Pete to cut his story short. Night is slowly devouring the day. Dusk has finally crept into the forest casting a gloom across the trees and the ground.

Frank lights his lantern. The flicker of the flame banishes some of the encroaching darkness. The shadows slink back to hide away from the brightness.

In the distance, Brendon can make out a break in the trees. He think’s they’re closer to the treeline than even Ray realizes.

Lady Luck lands on Brendon’s forearm. Her head tilts to the left and he follows her line of sight until he notices an ancient oak almost hidden behind a cluster of hazels. The oak has to be almost as old as the one back home.

Pete goes back to his tale. Ray asks him a question about something. Brendon can hear the sound of the sled scraping across the ground. It’s Pete’s turn to pull the holly so Ray’s walking beside him as they talk.

Brendon should be the next person in rotation. Should be. But there’s an oak tree not too far away and he’s tired. Christmas Eve isn’t even for a few more days. Yet, Brendon yearns for his bed. For the workbench in the back room of his shop.

He misses Greta and Spencer. He hasn’t written to them nearly as much as he should have. There are so many things he wants to tell them.

He also wants to properly introduce Spencer to Frank and Gabe. And vice versa. He thinks they’ll get along.

“Bren, what is it?” Frank’s voice is nearly a whisper at his side.

Brendon shakes his head. They should go to the village. He _should_ give Frank and Gabe a chance to decide for themselves what they want. Where they _want_ to live.

“Nothing.”

In front of them, Pete and Ray stop. Brendon vaguely registers the sound of the hazel branch hitting the ground gently.

“Is everything okay?” Ray’s words are shot through with minor worry.

Gabe waves him off. “We’re fine. Just need a moment to rest.”

Lady Luck walks down to the back of his hand. She looks from him to Frank then to Gabe before speaking.

“It’s a doorway home.”

Brendon stares at Lady Luck. He’s not happy with her. She’s pressed her hand much too far this time.

“There’s an oak up ahead. He might let us through. It’s not noon, but if I ask nicely enough he _might_ let us go home. I mean, we don’t have to, I’m sure they’ll be another oak somewhere else. We could even stay in the village if you don’t want to leave...”

Gabe places a hand under Brendon’s chin and turns his head. “Home sounds like a good idea, I’m exhausted. What do you say, Frankie? Continue onward or leave the heavy lifting to someone else?”

Frank links his fingers with Brendon’s. “Home _does_ sound better than manual labor.”

His voice goes from low and private to loud and blunt when he twists to catch Ray and Pete’s attention.

“We’re going to cut and run, okay? There’s chores to do, no doubt.”

Gabe chuckles and smacks Frank on the back of the head. “Be careful or Brendon will find something for us to do when we get back. But, seriously, is it fine if we leave? We’ll come back and visit.”

Frank leans behind Brendon and flicks Gabe on the arm. 

Ray shrugs. He doesn’t seem very heartbroken over having to transport the holly with less people to help. Pete is less blaise over the matter.

“Manual labor isn’t your thing. It’s completely fine. We can handle dragging a tree for a few more hours.” His words are deceptive, however, his body language is not. He’s unhappy.

Pete knew they weren’t going to stay. Brendon’s talked about home before. He just didn’t think they’d be leaving so soon.

Brendon feels bad about that. Maybe they shouldn’t leave so hastily.

Gabe sets his duffel down and unzips a compartment. He pulls out his journal and hands it to Pete. “Any pen will do. You don’t need an enchanted one. Same with the ink. Just flip to a clean page and address the letter to Brendon. When you’re done. Close the cover. You’ll know when we reply.”

Frank arches an eyebrow before gently dropping Brendon’s hand. He pulls his pack from his shoulder and rummages in a side pocket until he comes up with his own journal. He hands the leather bound book to Ray.

“The instructions are the same. If you need us. Let us know.” 

Brendon thinks he will never cease to be surprised by life and everything that happens. The journals should work for Pete and Ray the same way they did for Frank and Gabe.

Pete tries to hand Gabe’s journal back. Brendon carefully pushes Pete’s hands back toward his chest. “Take it. I can always enchant new ones.”

At the thought of enchantments, Brendon remembers the gifts at the bottom of his satchel. He planned to give them to Gabe and Frank in the bubble because he didn’t know if they’d want to go their separate ways after their gathering. He couldn’t have them leave without one last gift. One final piece of his magic to protect them from the things he never could.

It doesn’t take much effort to fish the small bundles out. Afterwards, Brendon leans over and rests his head against Gabe’s chest, a silent request for this to be okay. Normally, he wouldn’t give something as important as this away. However, he’s _not_ going home alone. He can shield Frank and Gabe without the aid of enchanted items now. Whereas he doesn’t have the same luxury with Pete and Ray.

Gabe whispers a _go ahead. We don’t need anything else._ against Brendon’s hair.

“It would be impolite not to give them gifts.” Frank’s words are moist against Brendon’s neck.

When they break apart, Brendon hands the smaller parcel to Ray. It’s a pair of gloves enchanted to handle the harsh conditions of the salty ocean breezes. They were going to replace the old, worn pair Gabe has now. Brendon can enchant another set for Gabe when he knows what new conditions to take into account.

The gloves should hold up for a woodcutter. The specifications aren’t exactly the same, but they’re warm, protecting, and durable. Brendon can’t think of anyone else who could use them more. 

“Don’t open it until Christmas. They should fit. Thank you for saving my life.”

Brendon wishes he could do more than a pair of enchanted gloves. Ray deserves more than a second-hand present. Which just means that next year, he’ll have to come up with something better.

Ray claps him on the back and calls him a good friend before walking back to the holly after nodding at Frank and Gabe, his way of saying _goodbye_.

It takes a minute for Pete to take his own gift. It’s a cloak that keeps the elements at bay. It’s also good for repelling arrows if the need should arise. Brendon enchanted the cloak so it could be worn under Frank’s military coat without being obtrusive.

“I don’t know if this will be helpful or not. I think it will.” Brendon quirks the corner of his mouth into a half smile as he tries to take a few steps back.

He doesn’t make it far. Pete reaches out and drags him into a hug. A whispered _thank you_ presses into his shoulder before vanishing when Pete pulls back.

Brendon does his best to smile wider. His chest feels full of even more emotions. He’s tired. He _wants_ to go home. However, he’s found friendship in a place he wasn’t expecting. Leaving is never easy when that happens.

It takes effort to back away from Pete. He nods at the items in Pete’s hands. “They’re our gifts to you. We’ll visit. I promise.”

Brendon tries to never _ever_ promise things he can not keep. It’s cruel to give your word only to break the vow when it’s inconvenient. He’s always done his best to keep his promises and he plans to continue that tradition for as long as he can.

Frank rests his hand on the back of Brendon’s collar and Gabe does the same.

“Take care, and try to not be an idiot.” Frank’s words are more for Pete than Ray but Ray nods in agreement.

Gabe sighs. He refrains from saying anything, though, it’s a losing battle. Frank will _always_ speak his mind. That will never change.

Lady Luck chirps. Brendon runs a fingertip from her crest to her tail. In an instant, she’s his hat once more. There’s no telling where in the forest back home this oak will send them. Brendon’s hoping he can ask nicely enough that they’ll crawl out of the roots of the oak he’s accustomed to. But if not, he wants to be prepared, no matter how unlikely it is for other people to be around at this hour.

“Lets go home, yeah?” Gabe smiles at them before nudging Brendon forward.

The hazels let them pass without any hassle. Brendon whispers a word of thanks to them.

When they get to the oak, he pauses. “We could stay. Here. In this realm, if you want.”

Brendon taps his fingers across the brim of his hat nervously. This is something he should have said hours ago. Perhaps even days before that.

Gabe shakes his head. “You said we have a room. I’m curious to see what it looks like.”

Frank nudges his arm and refrains from mentioning the fact that he and Gabe will, most likely, be sharing Brendon’s room with him instead of living in the spare. “Please tell me the curtains aren’t sheer and a monstrous shade of purple.”

Brendon laughs and places his hat on his head. He takes three steps forward and presses his palm against the cold bark.

“Brother Oak, who will one day be a Father of all Doorways, I ask thee a favor. We wish safe passage home. There is a _Father_ oak on the other side I praise. If you could bring us to him, what praises are not his shall be yours, gladly.”

Above Brendon’s head, a rectangular slice of pure dark cuts into the oak. Frank extinguishes his lantern, stows it away, and slides his staff into the strap he added to his canvas pack for carrying the thing when he had to climb cliffs or trees.

“Looks like we’re climbing.”

Gabe goes to reach for a branch and the limb snakes down to form a handhold. Others follow downward, forming a wooden rigging, creaking in the breeze. Gabe climbs up deftly, mocking Frank for his gracelessness while Frank heckles Gabe for no reason. Brendon grabs the end of a branch and smiles to himself.

They’re going home.

Together.

One journey ending. Another waiting in the wings to begin.

Tomorrow will be a brand new day. A new adventure to be had. However, that day isn’t here, yet. He mustn’t get too far ahead of himself. It will come when it comes, and not a moment sooner.

Brendon climbs and doesn’t think about the dawn. They can do that when they make it home.

Soon, but not quite yet.


End file.
